The parson had already drawn out his pocket-knife. But he slashed the rope between Collins and himself.
“I’m going with you, Joe,” he declared.
“Keep shoutin’!” bawled Collins, as the two younger men started off at a tangent from the path.
The bowlders were glassed with ice. The two friends floundered and slipped about in an awkward way, straining themselves enormously and not seldom falling. The one aided the other. It was fortunate, Hunt realized, that they had come together, for one man alone could never have accomplished the journey to the sheer wall of the cliff.
Of a sudden there seemed to be a lull in the gale. Really, they had reached a more sheltered spot. The storm sang around them, but they were not so terribly buffeted.
Joe shouted again:
“Nell! Nell Blossom! Betty!”
Hunt joined his voice to that of his friend. They continued to bellow the girls’ names. Hurley grabbed the parson’s arm suddenly.
“Hush!”
There was a response. A wailing voice replied.