"No, don't you hear it—from down by the crick bank?" cried the boy in the same excited whisper. His father was conscious of the wish that he would select a more normal tone.
"There!" cried Custer.
As he spoke, a cry, faint and wavering, reached Mr. Shrimplin's ears.
"I do seem to hear something—" he admitted.
"What do you suppose it is?" asked the boy, peering off into the gloom.
"I don't know, Custer, and not wishing to be short with you, I don't care a damn!" rejoined Mr. Shrimplin, endeavoring to meet the situation with an air of pleasant raillery.
He gathered up his lines as he spoke.
"Why, what are you thinking of?" demanded Custer.
"I was thinking of your ma, Custer!" faltered Mr. Shrimplin weakly. "We been gone longer than we said, it must be after eleven o'clock."
"There!" cried Custer again, as a feeble call for help floated up to them. "It's from down on the crick bank back of the slaughter-house!"