He had thought it quiet. Now; he knew that never, in London's busiest hour, had he heard so many sounds, so many whispering voices, unseen, but close at hand.
Carson awoke with a moaning request for water.
"Yuss, yuss, matey. I know its cruel 'ard. But there just ain't a drop. I'd drain my 'eart's blood, if that'd 'elp. But wot can I do, nah; wot can I do?"
"Oh, my God, water, water—just one drop," and the wounded man's voice trailed off incoherently; though ever and again Twing caught the one word, "water!"
"W'en they come," Twing began, pausing as a sudden thought struck him. "Wot if..."
Bending low, he lit the night lamp, adjusted the shutter, trained it toward where he thought the break in the escarpment to be. If they could see, if they had hearts, they would hurry, hurry, bringing water to his wounded mate. Again and again he sent the cry for help, peering into the darkness desertward for the flashed RD which would tell him his message was caught. It was useless; and the hours dragged by with no sound from Turks or British.
The noises of the hills again began their chorus. Carson woke calling for water in a weak whisper, fainter than before. The sound wrenched
