_June 6th. With a good Samaritan._
While waiting for our things to dry, the day after the experience in the
grader’s camp, we visited our host and his family, who were shocked at
the dangers we had encountered unarmed. The eldest son brought out a
sharp lath hatchet, through the handle of which a hole had been bored
and a stout leather loop attached to slip over the hand. This he handed
to Dan with the remark that while it could hardly be called a deadly
weapon, it would do good execution in case of trouble and at the same
time be useful in making camp. Little did I think, as Dan thanked him
heartily and strapped it on the wheel, how soon that hatchet would prove
the means of saving my life.
Later in the day we reached the railroad and that night camped in a
ravine. The next day dawned hot and clear. Mile after mile we trudged
down the track, for the roads were still too wet for riding. Houses were
scarce and stood far away from our course; there were no streams near or
other places to obtain drinking water. Our thirst increased as the day
wore on, and when at last we saw a farmhouse in a group of trees some
half mile from the track, Dan suggested that I remain with the bicycle
while he crossed the several pastures that lay between and brought back
a kettle of water. So I sat beside the wheel on the edge of the
embankment while Dan climbed the fence and disappeared in the trees.
In a few minutes a dreadful commotion arose from the direction of the
farmhouse. A great, roaring voice was booming like a cannon.
“Get out! ... ornery hide. You....” Inarticulate outcries and oaths
mingled with scattered words and phrases.
I listened appalled. I knew the attitude that some farmers maintained
towards tramps, and I trembled for Dan’s safety. The racket increased in
violence. I became frantic and determined to go to the rescue.
Unstrapping the hatchet from the handle bars, I slipped the thong about
my wrist and plunged under the railroad fence and across the field,
determined to take a short cut to the scene of combat. Worming a
difficult passage through a barbed wire fence, I came to a black,
sluggish creek or strip of mud perhaps eight feet wide, bordered by a
thick row of trees, whose branches hung low over the surface. An
extremely stout barbed wire fence stretched at right angles across this
stream and joined a similar fence on the farther bank. I paused on the
brink, for the black, slimy surface was repellent. The outcries
redoubled and from where I stood whole sentences became intelligible.
“Come on now, you ... son of a gun! Get out of that gate, you. Oh, if I
could only reach you with a club. I’ll shoot your hide full of holes in
about a minute.”
I gazed anxiously up and down. My only course was to wade across.
Grasping the hatchet firmly, I swung my arms, made a little run, a jump
and plunged in. Down, down I sank, deeper and deeper. I laboured
furiously to reach the further bank, but my struggles only increased the
rapidity with which I sank. The thick, black slime rose higher and
higher about me. I tried to scream, but my parched lips could utter no
sound. We have no quicksands or sloughs in my home country, but I have
read of such places and heard of horses and cattle and sometimes human
beings going down, never to be seen again. I thought of Dan escaping
from the farmer and returning to find the abandoned wheel. Of his wife,
there would be no trace. My end would always remain a mystery. As the
black mud sucked me down, I could imagine it rising to my chin, my lips,
my nostrils. I could picture the inky surface closing over my head,
shutting out the sunlight forever.
In a frenzy, I threw my arms above my head. The blade of the hatchet
caught over a bough. Cautiously I pulled. It held firm. A gleam of hope
illumined my dark despair. Grasping the handle with my left hand, I
tried to lift myself out, but the slough refused to give up its victim
so easily. The blade slipped a little. My heart seemed to leap from my
body. My senses reeled. Fiercely I called on all my forces of reason,
will and self-control.
Placing just enough weight on the hatchet handle to prevent my sinking
deeper, I studied the situation calmly. My one hope lay in securing a
firm hold on the large branch above.
Little by little I began to spring the smaller shoot up and down. Harder
and harder I pulled on the hatchet, at the same time forcing the blade
firmly over the limb. The leaves swung closer and closer. Emboldened, I
worked harder than ever. At last I was able to abandon my hold on the
hatchet and secure a firm grip with both hands on the tough wood.
But the slough dragged me down with a grip like an octopus. A ton weight
pulled at each foot, my skirt seemed grasped by a thousand clutching
hands. And then I gave thanks for my broad shoulders, and for the
violent exercise of steering the tandem, which had developed the sturdy
muscles of my hands and arms. Slowly, slowly I made headway against the
treacherous depths; slowly, slowly, the vicious grip was broken, till
with a gasp of relief I dragged myself out upon the bank.