"Isn't it queer," Jerry said, "to think that people are there and we
can't possibly tell them."
"It's worse than queer," I said.
Then we were still again, till presently Jerry said:
"Do you hear that funny noise, Chris?"
I had been listening to it just then, and said "Yes" and that I
supposed it was the horrid noise the water made around on the other
side. For quite a time we didn't hear it, and then Jerry said:
"There it is again! The water must suck into those echoey hollows.
It sounds almost like a person groaning."
"Don't!" I said.
All at once he turned toward me and said in a queer, quick voice:
"Do you suppose it could possibly be Greg?"
I can't describe the way I felt when he said it, but if you've ever
felt the same you know what I mean. It was a little as though
something heavy dropped from my throat down to my toes, through me,
leaving me all empty, with cold, tingly things rushing up again to
my head. They were still rushing as we flew around the rock, and I
kept saying:
"It can't be Greg.... It _can't_ be...."
But it was.
He was lying doubled up, just below the high place where Jerry had
told him to keep watch. We didn't dare to touch him, because we
didn't know how badly he was hurt, and he couldn't seem to tell us.
But when I tried to put my arm under him, he pushed me a little and
said, "No, no," so I stopped.
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