CHAPTER NINETEEN.
THE NEW HORROR.
They did not know exactly where to go, for the guidance afforded by a sound is very deceptive, but there had been the splash of water, so that the shot must have been from somewhere at the foot of the Toft, down where the meadow land gave place to rough marsh, bog, and reedy water.
Dick listened as he ran; but there was no splash now--no sound of footstep.
As the lads advanced the dawning light increased, and a startled bird flew out from the bushes, another from a tuft of dry grass; and once more there was the _chink_--_chink_ of a blackbird.

The day was awakening, and Dick Winthorpe asked himself what the dawn was to show.
It was still dark enough to necessitate care, and over the mere as they neared it a low mist hung, completely screening its waters as they vainly attempted to pierce the gloom.
Plash, plash through the boggy parts of the mere fringe, for Dick had not paused to follow any track, stumbling among tufts of grass and marsh growth, they hurried on with eager eyes, longing to shout, but afraid, for there was a growing horror upon both the lads of having to be shortly in presence of some terrible scene.
They neither of them spoke, but mutually clung together for support, though all the time there was a strange repugnance in Dick's breast as he now began to realise the strength of the suspicion he entertained.
But if they dared not shout, there was some one near at hand ready to utter a lusty cry, which startled them as it rang out of the gloom from away down by the labourers' cottages and the wheelwright's.
"Ahoy! Hillo!" rang out.
"Hillo, Hicky!" yelled Tom.

"Here!" "Where away, lads ?" came back; and then there was the dull low beat of feet, and they heard the wheelwright shout to his apprentice to follow him.
The two little parties joined directly, to stand in the mist all panting and excited, the wheelwright half-dressed, and his bare head rough from contact with the pillow.
"Hey, lads," he cried, "was that you two shouting ?" Dick tried to speak, but he could not frame a word.
"No; we heard it from somewhere down here," panted Tom.
"I heered it too," cried Jacob, "and wackened the mester." "Ay, that's a true word," cried Hickathrift.

"What does it mean ?" "Hicky," panted Dick in piteous tones, "I don't know--I'm afraid I--my father's out here somewhere." "Hey! The squire ?" cried Hickathrift with a curious stare at first one and then the other.

"Yow don't think--" He paused, and Dick replied in a whisper: "Yes, Hicky, I do." "Here, let's search about; it's getting light fast.