How far this slow and difficult march continued it would have been hard for any of the little party to estimate. They might have covered a mile; it might not be a half-mile.
Lon, who was in the lead, suddenly pulled up.
“Boys,” he said, “I hate to give up, but is there any use holdin’ on longer? It’s gettin’ powerful dark; the rain’s wuss than ever; we dunno but Varley and the Shark are this minute toastin’ their toes by Mis’ Grant’s fire. Besides, we’ve got to have lanterns if we’re goin’ to poke around this way. ’Tain’t altogether a question now of findin’ somebody else; it’s gettin’ to be a question o’ keepin’ ourselves from gettin’ lost. What say, Sam?”
Sam hesitated, glancing at Orkney. What Lon had said was true enough. Still, he was extremely reluctant to abandon or even to interrupt the hunt. Orkney, too, appeared to be of this opinion, if Sam interpreted rightly the look on his face.
“Well, Lon,” Sam began doubtfully; “of course——”
There he broke off, abruptly; clapped a hand to his ear; bent forward, listening eagerly.
“What’s that sound? Catch it? Something mighty queer about it.”
Sam’s voice had been shaking with excitement. Orkney’s answer was not free of the same note:
“I hear it. I—I never heard anything else just like it. ’Tisn’t just like a rustle, or a rumble, or—or I don’t know what to call it. But I make it out fast enough!”
“Umph! So do I—now,” said Lon sharply.