They were about to enter Mount Hope now; to their right they could distinguish the brick slaughter-house which stood on the river bank, and which served conveniently to mark the town’s corporate limits on the east.  The little lamplighter spoke persuasively to Bill, and the lateness of the hour together with the nearness to his own stable, conspired to make that sagacious beast shuffle forward over the stony road at a very respectable rate of speed.  They were fairly abreast of the slaughter-house when Custer suddenly placed his hand on his father’s arm.

“Hark!” said the boy.

Mr. Shrimplin drew rein.

“Well, what is it, Custer?” he asked, with all that bland indulgence of manner which was habitual to him in his intercourse with his son.

“Didn’t you hear, it sounded like a cry!” said Custer, in an excited whisper.

And instantly a shiver traversed the region of Mr. Shrimplin’s spine.

“I guess you was mistaken, son!” he answered rather nervously.

“No, don’t you hear it—­from down by the crick bank?” cried the boy in the same excited whisper.  His father was conscious of the wish that he would select a more normal tone.

“There!” cried Custer.

As he spoke, a cry, faint and wavering, reached Mr. Shrimplin’s ears.

“I do seem to hear something—­” he admitted.

“What do you suppose it is?” asked the boy, peering off into the gloom.

“I don’t know, Custer, and not wishing to be short with you, I don’t care a damn!” rejoined Mr. Shrimplin, endeavoring to meet the situation with an air of pleasant raillery.

He gathered up his lines as he spoke.

“Why, what are you thinking of?” demanded Custer.

“I was thinking of your ma, Custer!” faltered Mr. Shrimplin weakly.  “We been gone longer than we said, it must be after eleven o’clock.”

“There!” cried Custer again, as a feeble call for help floated up to them.  “It’s from down on the crick bank back of the slaughter-house!”

Mr. Shrimplin was knowing a terrible moment of doubt, especially terrible because the doubt was of himself.  He was aware that Custer would expect much of him in the present crisis, and he was equally certain that he would not rise to the occasion.  If somebody would only come that way!  And he listened desperately for the sound of wheels on the road, but all he heard was that oft-repeated call for help that came wailing from the black shadows beyond the slaughter-house.  Suddenly Custer answered the call with a reassuring cry.

“Perhaps it’s another murder!” he said.

“Oh, my God!” gasped Shrimplin, and there flashed through his mind the horror of that other night.

Custer slipped out of the cart.

“Come on!” he cried.