THE TREACHEROUS BOG
Two days after their trip over the course of the Canal the three chums
decided to spend a long day on an exploring expedition after their own
heart. They resolved to go off early some fine morning on "their own
hook" and see and do what pleased them best. Accordingly, they made all
their plans, and, the night before the eventful day, laid in provisions
for a "bang up" lunch for three.
They procured an old alarm clock and set it to go off at four o'clock in
the morning. This done, they finished discussing every detail of the
trip, and as soon as their excitement would let them, fell into a sound
sleep.
It seemed to them that they had hardly laid their heads on the pillows
when they were awakened by the strident whirring of the little
sleep-killer, and sat up in bed yawning and rubbing their eyes.
"Good-night!" exclaimed Bert. "It isn't possible that it's really time
to get up. It seems to me that I haven't been asleep more than ten
minutes."
"Same here," yawned Dick. "I guess there must be something sleepy in
this air. No wonder the natives are lazy, if they feel every morning the
way I do now."
"Oh, what's the matter with you two lemons, anyway?" laughed Tom. "My
private opinion, publicly expressed, is that you're both just plumb lazy.
But there's nothing like that about me. Just see how lively I feel,"
and to prove his assertion he grasp ed a pillow in each hand and landed
them with fatal aim on the respective heads of the other two.
"Gee," exclaimed Dick, as he and Bert rose in righteous wrath preliminary
to smothering Tom under an avalanche of bedclothes, "it's a lucky thing
you don't feel any better than you do. In that case you'd probably be
landing us with a couple of pieces of furniture."
"I'd like to do that, anyway," came Tom's muffled voice from beneath the
pile of pillows and blankets. "For Heaven's sake, let me up and quit
stepping on my head."
Thus adjured, Bert and Dick released their victim, and after what looked
like a miniature earthquake among the pile of things on the floor Tom
emerged, very red in the face.
"That's a swell way to start the day, isn't it?" he protested in an
injured tone. "Two minutes more of that and I'd have smothered, sure.
If you want to murder me, why don't you do it in a less painful manner?"
"Hush, my son," said Dick. "Who started it? Never start anything you
can't finish, my boy."
With this piece of good advice Dick started dressing, and the others
followed suit. After this they made up the lunch, eating a sandwich now
and then by way of breakfast. There was nothing fancy in the way in
which the sandwiches were thrown together, and the mothers of the three
boys would no doubt have been horrified could they have seen it.
However, "everything went," as Bert expressed it, and in a very short
time they had their packing done and were ready to start.
They slipped as silently as possible through the corridors, and in less
time than it takes to tell were in the outer air. It was still very
early, and the hot sun was not yet high enough to dissipate the heavy
mist that hung close over the ground. They knew this would not last
long, however, so started out on their expedition at a round gait.
They had resolved beforehand to strike into the wild country bordering
the path of the big ditch, and see it "at first hand," as Dick phrased
it. Each had a rifle with him, and they expected to bag some small game
if opportunity should offer, with which to supplement their lunch.
The country immediately bordering the Canal at this point was rather
barren and rocky, but at no great distance a thick tropical jungle sprang
up, and it was into this that the boys resolved to go. Accordingly they
picked their way over the rough flat, perhaps two miles in width, which
lay between them and the line of green jungle.
The going was very rough, and it took them almost an hour to reach the
trees. Everything has an end, however, and in due time they found
themselves at the edge of the fringe of trees that stood out a little way
from the main forest. These were soon passed, and the comrades entered
the green gloom of the big tropic trees. Their trunks shot up thirty or
forty feet before the branches sprang out, and were thinly encircled by
clinging vines and plants.
The leaves in many places met overhead, and caused a perpetual twilight
in the forest aisles. As the boys penetrated deeper and deeper toward
the heart of the woods the underbrush and vines grew continually thicker,
and in many places they found their progress stopped by some tangled
growth and were forced to cut it away before they could proceed. It grew
hotter and hotter, too, with a damp, clammy heat that at last became
almost unbearable.
"Great Scott!" burst out Dick, at last, while they were cutting through a
particularly tough growth of vines and creepers. "I think this is about
the hardest work I ever did in my life. What you need to make a path in
this blooming jungle is a carload of dynamite--not merely a few little
toad-stickers like these we're using."
"Well, as we haven't the dynamite handy, I suppose we'll have to make the
best of the 'toadstickers,'" laughed Bert, amused by his companion's
rueful countenance. "You didn't expect to find a macadamized road
running through this little strip of woodland, did you?"
"No, but I didn't expect to find vines made of cast iron, either,"
replied Dick.
"Never mind, old scout," said Bert, "this can't last long. We're certain
to hit on a game trail sooner or later, and then we'll be in clover. And
the harder we work now, the sooner we'll find it."
"Oh, well, here goes," responded Dick, and fell to with renewed vigor.
Before very long it turned out as Bert had predicted. After cutting
through a particularly dense thicket, they had not gone far when they
stumbled on a narrow but clearly defined trail that ran in a
southeasterly direction.
"Eureka!" exclaimed Tom, as this welcome sight met their eyes, "it will
be plain sailing from now on, and we ought to be able to get somewhere."
"We don't know where we're going, but we're on the way," sang Bert.
"Forward, march, fellows. Christopher Columbus had nothing on us as
discoverers."
"Righto," agreed his companions, and they set forth along the narrow path
at a brisk pace.
There were traces of game in plenty, but they were unable to catch a
glimpse of anything that might give them a chance to exercise their
marksmanship. Of course, the trees were full of monkeys and parrots, but
they had no wish to kill merely for the sake of killing, and were
resolved to shoot nothing that they could not use as food.
No game made its appearance, and the boys were looking around for a site
on which they could pitch camp, when they were suddenly startled by a
distant shout.
"Help, help!" came the cry, evidently at some distance from them. In
spite of this, the three adventurers had no difficulty in recognizing the
note of terror in it, and after one look at each other started off at a
dead run in the direction of the cries. Running, tripping, stumbling,
picking themselves up and racing on again harder than ever, it was not
long before the shouts for help were appreciably nearer, and Bert, with
what breath was left him, shouted back. Tom and Dick followed suit, and
it became evident the person in distress, whoever it might be, had heard
them, for his shouts ceased.
Suddenly Bert, who was a little in advance of the others, pulled himself
up abruptly, and glanced down at the ground. "Easy there, fellows," he
cautioned, between gasps for breath. "It looks as though we'd struck the
edge of a bog, and now we'd better make haste slowly."
"You're right," exclaimed Dick, after they had taken a few cautious steps
forward. "It keeps getting softer and softer, and I think we'd better
look around for some path. We'll be bogged in another hundred feet."
"Well, we might as well let whoever it is we're going after know we're
still on the job," said Tom, and forthwith he gave vent to a whoop that
sent a cloud of wild birds soaring up from the reeds by which they were
now surrounded.
His shout was answered by another from the unknown, and Tom yelled,
"Don't give up, we'll get to you as soon as we can. What's the matter,
are you stuck in the swamp?"
"Yes," called the other, "and I'm getting deeper every minute. Follow
the edge of the swamp a few hundred yards toward the west, and you'll
find the path that I wandered from. But hurry up, or I'm a goner."
"All right," sang out Bert, and the three hurriedly skirted the bog in
the direction which its unfortunate victim had indicated. Sure enough,
in a few minutes they reached a spot where the reeds thinned out
considerably, and they could see the stranger. He was almost up to his
shoulders in the soft, sticky mud, but when he caught sight of his
would-be rescuers, he waved a hand to them feebly.
"Step lively, boys," he implored, "I'm almost done for. I won't be able
to last long. The further I sink the faster, and this muck will soon be
over my head."
The three comrades held a hurried consultation as to the best means they
could employ to effect the man's release.
"Let's buckle our belts together," suggested Bert, hastily divesting
himself of his. "Maybe we can pull him out that way."
This was no sooner said than done, and in a twinkling the three stout
belts were fastened together. Then, following the captive's direction,
they ventured gingerly out on the narrow path, composed of quaking tufts
of soft earth that led into and presumably across the swamp. Soon they
were within ten feet or so of the unfortunate, who proved to be a well
built man of middle age. They threw him the end of the improvised rope,
which he grasped desperately. Then they bent their united efforts to
pulling him out of the clinging mire. Pull as they might, however, they
were hardly able to move him, as they could get no purchase on the soft
ground, and only began to sink in themselves. It was with difficulty
that, after giving over this attempt as hopeless, they managed to
scramble back to solid ground.
"Don't give up, boys," pleaded the unhappy man. "You're not going to let
me die here, are you?"
"Don't worry about our deserting you," said Bert. "We're going to get
you out of this, but we've got to figure out how. Can you think of
anything?"
"You might run back to where the underbrush starts and bring back a lot
of it," suggested he. "I might be able to support myself that way while
you went for help."
"That's a good idea," exclaimed Bert, and in accordance with the
suggestion they raced back to the jungle and soon returned, each bearing
a large bundle of underbrush. This they threw into the swamp in such a
way that the man could rest his arms on it. Then they waited expectantly
to see if this would "turn the trick."
At first it seemed that the plan would prove successful, but before long
it became apparent that the man was still sinking, although more slowly
than before. The brush only served to defer his fate.
"Hang it all!" exclaimed Bert, as he realized this fact, "there's nothing
we can do here alone. What we need is planks, and ropes, and tools. The
only thing I can see is for us to hustle back to camp and get help."
"The sooner the better, I guess," agreed Dick, soberly, and accordingly
they explained their intentions to the man in the bog.
"How far have you got to go?" inquired the latter, and when they told him
he groaned.
"You'll never get back in time," he said, "but I guess it's the only
thing left to do. Only, one of you please stay here with me. If I've
got to die, I'd rather not die alone."
"Oh, quit that talk about dying," exclaimed Bert, although in his heart
he had little hope. But the three comrades were resolved to employ every
means, however desperate, for the stranger's release.
They held a brief consultation.
"You and Tom had better go, Dick," said Bert. "I'll stay here and do all
I can to keep this poor fellow alive, but it's a long trip and I'm afraid
there's not much chance for him."
So Tom and Dick set off at a brisk trot, and Bert began to talk with the
unfortunate man with the idea of getting his mind as much as possible off
his predicament. It developed that he was an engineer connected with the
Canal, who had gone for a day's hunting in the jungle. He had lost his
way, and had been forced to make camp over night. Early the next morning
he had set out, and when he had reached the swamp had attempted to cross
it by way of a path that a native guide had pointed out to him as being a
short cut, on a previous trip. He had taken two or three steps off the
path before he realized it, and then, when he had attempted to return,
had found himself held fast in the treacherous mire. All his efforts to
escape had only resulted in his sinking deeper and deeper, and finally he
had ceased struggling. Then he began to shout at intervals, in the faint
hope of someone being within earshot, and, as we have seen, brought the
three boys to his aid.
While the man had been talking, Bert's mind had been busy with a hundred
plans for helping him, which, however, he was forced to abandon one after
the other. It wrung his heart to see the poor wretch slowly sinking in
the filthy mud, and to feel his own absolute inability to help him. By
this time, the stranger was in the mire up to his chin, the underbrush
which the boys had cut for him having gradually been pulled under.
Almost imperceptibly, but none the less surely, he sank, and Bert tore
his hair and paced wildly up and down the bank, wrung by pity for the
doomed man. At last the latter smiled weakly, and said, "Well, good-bye,
my boy. You and your pals did your best, but I'm done for now.
Hartley's my name, and tell the boys back at the camp that I died game,
anyway. Tell them----"
But at this point Bert dashed madly away, pulling his sharp hunting knife
from its sheath as he ran. He plunged into a thick clump of reeds on the
edge of the swamp, and hastily cut an unusually long and tough one. He
put it to his lips and blew through it, assuring himself that it was
hollow. Then he rushed madly back to the place where the engineer was
immersed. Nor was he a minute too soon.
The man had sunk until the mud was at his very lips, and in another few
moments it would inevitably close over his mouth and nostrils. Bert
dashed out on the quaking path, careless of his own danger, and in a few
words explained his plan to the engineer. The latter's eyes lighted up
with hope, and expressed the thanks he had no time to utter.
Bert got as near him as he could, and thrust one end of the reed into
Hartley's mouth. His teeth and lips closed tightly about it.
"There you are." exclaimed Bert, exultantly. "Now you can breathe
through that reed until help comes from camp, and then we'll get you out
if we have to drain the swamp to do it. I'll stay right here till they
come, and the reed will mark your position. Keep up hope and you'll be
all right yet."
His eloquent eyes told Bert that he understood, and now there was nothing
to do but sit down and wait for the expected help to arrive from camp.
He knew that this would not be for some time yet, and his only hope was
that the man in the swamp would not sink deeper than the length of the
reed.
He sank very slowly now, but none the less surely, and gradually the mud
covered his mouth--his nostrils--his eyes--and at length his head sank
beneath the surface. The smooth mire closed over the place where he had
been, and the slender reed was all that remained to connect him with the
living, pulsing world about.
At the thought of the horrible death the engineer would now have suffered
without the aid of that frail thing Bert shuddered, and thanked Heaven
for the inspiration.
The seething tropic life went on without interruption, as Bert sat on the
edge of the swamp with his eyes fastened on the reed. From the jungle
back of him came the myriad cries of the wild things: the chatter of
monkeys, the screams of the gaily colored parrots, and, once, the distant
yell of a mountain lion.
The tropic sun beat down with ever-increasing intensity as it neared the
zenith, and Bert felt an awful oppression stealing over him. After the
first flush of triumph over cheating the bog, at least temporarily, of
its victim, a rush of doubts and fears came over him. Could the engineer
retain consciousness, immersed as he was in the vile, sticky mud? Would
he not give up, and release his hold on the precious reed? These and a
thousand other misgivings tortured Bert as he watched the reed and waited
for the expected reinforcements. The minutes seemed hours, and when he
looked at his watch he was astonished to find it was not yet noon.
At length his weary vigil was broken by a distant shout, which he
recognized as Tom's. All his fears vanished at the prospect of immediate
action, and he raised a great shout in return. In a few moments he could
hear the noise occasioned by the passage of a considerable body of men,
and soon the rescuing party hove in sight. This consisted of several of
the camp engineers and foremen, together with eight or ten husky
laborers. Everybody, including Tom and Dick, carried shovels and ropes,
and some of the laborers bore long, wide planks on their shoulders.
Dick and Tom rushed forward, followed by the others, but stopped short
when they looked at the treacherous swamp and saw no sign of the
engineer. Their faces paled, and Dick exclaimed, "Too late, are we? We
did our best, but we've got here too late."
Grief was written on every face, but this was soon dispelled when Bert
exclaimed, briskly, "Too late nothing. He's under the swamp, to be sure,
but he's breathing through the reed you see sticking up there," and he
pointed out to them this slender barrier between life and death.
"Well, I'll be hanged," muttered one of the rescuing party, "how in the
world did he ever come to think of that, I wonder?"
"Never mind how I came to think of it!" exclaimed Bert, "the thing is now
to get him out. I've been watching that reed, and I don't believe he's
more than ten inches or a foot below the surface. I feared he'd be a
good deal deeper by this time."
Accordingly the rescuing party fell to with feverish haste, and began
constructing a sort of boxed-in raft about eight feet square. This would
support several people on the shaky surface of the bog, and it would give
them a place to work on while attempting to extract Hartley.
In the meantime, what had been the sensations of the unfortunate
engineer? As the thick mud slowly closed over his head he held the reed
tightly between his lips, and had little difficulty in breathing through
it. The mud was warm, and strange to say, he had a feeling almost of
comfort as he sank beneath it. Soon he felt an almost overpowering
desire to sleep. He knew, however, that if he yielded to this he would
lose his hold on the reed, and so fought off the perilous drowsiness.
Before very long he felt something hard under his feet, and was conscious
that he was no longer sinking. At first he was at a loss to know what
had stopped his downward progress, but at last decided he must have come
to rest on a sunken stump. This theory was confirmed when he felt
around, first with one foot and then with the other, and found that on
all sides of him there was only soft mud. But the stump beneath him
renewed his hope.
Above ground the rescuing party was plying its saws and hammers to good
effect, and in an incredibly short time had finished the rough raft.
This done they spread the remaining planks along the so-called path
leading into the swamp, and prepared to launch their "mud boat," as Tom
styled it.
The rude affair was hoisted up on the brawny shoulders of the laborers,
and they carried it into the swamp, treading very gingerly on the narrow,
quaking pathway. They "launched" it at a spot as near as possible to the
reed, and it was evident that it would give them an ample base from which
to conduct their operations.
Stout ropes were then brought, and one of the engineers reached down into
the soft mud directly under the spot where the reed disappeared. Quickly
drawing his hand up, he exclaimed, "I touched him easily that time!
Give me the rope, and I think I can reach down far enough to get it under
his arms."
The rope was given him, and, reaching far over the side of the raft, he
plunged his arms into the mud up to his shoulders. He manipulated the
rope deftly, and soon jumped to his feet, waving his muddy arms.
"I've got it tied, all right," he exclaimed. "Now, men, we'll see if we
can't pull the poor fellow out."
Three of the laborers took hold of the rope, and exerted all their
strength on it. Slowly, very slowly, inch by inch, they pulled it up,
until at last, amid a roar of cheers from them all, Hartley's head
appeared above the surface of the swamp, the reed still held between his
lips. The men leaned over and grasped his arms, and at last succeeded in
pulling him into the boat.
He was a strange figure, and would hardly have been recognized as being a
man. The thick mud clung to him, and made his features unrecognizable.
"Here," exclaimed Bert, "let's get the mud off him," and accordingly the
contents of several water bottles was dashed over his face. At last he
was able to open his eyes and to speak.
"There's no use my trying to thank you," he said, addressing the little
group. "Nothing I can say can express my thankfulness to everybody here,
and especially these three lads, who have certainly done wonders for me."
"Oh, that's all right," said Bert, "maybe you'll have a chance to do
something for us one day, and then we'll be quits."
"Well, that doesn't alter matters at present," replied Hartley, "and you
and your friends certainly did everything that could be done. I had just
about given up hope when you happened along."
"It's a lucky thing for you they did, Hartley," broke in one of the
engineers, who had accompanied the rescuing party. "Why, when these two
lads dashed into camp and told us of your fix, we gave you up for lost.
That reed business was certainly a great stunt."
"No doubt about it," agreed another, and the three boys were deluged with
a flood of like congratulations. Then the party started back. Hartley
pluckily declared that he could walk, but they overruled him, and took
turns in carrying him on a rude litter that they had hastily knocked
together.
"That fellow certainly has got wonderful nerve," said Tom to Bert and
Dick, and they heartily agreed with him.