Evidently there was something wrong.
"Something wrong with old Tom, Sailor ?" I asked, as though he could answer me.

And indeed he did answer as plainly as dog could do, wagging his tail and whining, and turning to go back with me in the direction whence he had come.
But I stopped to shoot off my revolver again.

Still no answer.
"Off we go then, old chap," and as he ran ahead, I followed him as fast as I could over those damnable rocks.
It took me the best part of an hour to get to where Tom had been working.

It was an extent of those more porous limestone rocks of which I have spoken, almost cliff-like in height, and covering a considerable area.

Sailor brushed his way ahead, pushing through the scrub with canine importance.