sometimes drowned out by the uproar, sometimes left shouting alone in a moment of throbbing silence. What Hugh caught came in broken fragments.
“Two fellows—hunting—gone four days now—lost some way—these hills—blowing all the whistles at once—hoped—might hear—
The screaming and clanging finally died away, leaving one long-drawn siren to drop alone, while Hugh’s informant also lowered his voice to ordinary speech.
“We do that hereabouts when people get lost. Every whistle in three counties is blowing right now, so if they don’t hear one and follow it, they may another. Sometimes it brings them back, more often it doesn’t. It’s an ugly thing to get lost in these hills.”
“How long did you say they had been gone?” asked Hugh.
“Three—four—no, by George, it’s five days. There’s their pile of mail that’s been collecting on the window ledge, and those first letters are five days old.”
