THE BOG
“‘Where are you going, my pretty maid?’
“‘I’m going a-milking, sir, she said,’” chanted Pete as Ben Hoover
emerged from the mess tent with the largest tin pail the camp boasted
swinging from one hand, and the next largest one from the other.
“Gentlemen,” said Ben, with mock dignity, “I’m not in the humor even
to resent the insult your words imply further than to say that you
will be sorry for those cruel words when you learn my mission.
“I am about to sacrifice myself on the altar of friendship! I am
about to separate myself from human society for the space of two
endless hours! I am to spend those two hours in gathering material
for raspberry dumplings”--here a general shout of delight greeted
him--“with which to brighten the lives of many friends.”
This speech was highly applauded by the “many friends,” and Ben,
bowing solemnly, picked up his two pails and walked off, followed by
cries of:
“Hurrah for friendship!”
“Bully for you!”
“Go in and win!”
“We won’t do a thing to those raspberries!”
“Wait till you get them,” Ben called back, as he disappeared down the
hill.
Whistling gaily, Ben swung along till he came to the spot he had
noticed the afternoon before, where the raspberry bushes glowed red
with the luscious fruit.
By the time he had filled one pail, the berries were getting more
scarce, and he wandered on in search of the best filled bushes.
He did not notice that the ground was growing soft and springy under
his feet. He only thought of getting that other pail filled and
hiking back to camp in time for the cook to use the berries for those
promised dumplings.
“Ah, there is the dandiest one yet!” he said to himself, as a bush
fairly loaded with the red berries met his sight. He set down his
pail and reached for the berries. At that moment a sensation came
over him as if the ground were giving way beneath his feet, and
without a moment’s warning he found himself ankle deep in soft,
sticky mud.
Not in the least alarmed, he tried to spring to firmer ground, but
instead sank deeper into the mud than before.
More vexed than frightened, he made a more determined effort to draw
one foot out, but found that he only sank deeper. In sudden anger,
he struggled fiercely. What a sight he would be to return to camp
with his clothes all covered with mud! And such mud! How he loathed
it! He _must_, he _would_ get out, and again he tried, leaning from
side to side, tugging first at one foot, then at the other, but to no
avail.
Thoroughly frightened now, and filled with panic, he threw himself
first backward, then forward, to left, to right. Desperately, wildly,
he strove to draw himself from that awful bog. It seemed as if some
terrible monster with countless hands were dragging him down, deeper,
deeper into that awful mire. The more he struggled, the deeper he
sank.
All at once he realized this and ceased to struggle. He tried to
think. Was it possible that there was no way to get out of this
all-enveloping mud? Could it be that he was to die here, all alone?
And such a terrible death!
The thought sent a shudder through him, and for a few moments he felt
faint and ill. But no, it could not be! Why, his life was just begun!
What about all those plans to make the most of every ounce of ability
God had given him, to make a successful man of himself, to help
others, to make this old world some better because he had lived? Why,
he _could_ not die, he _could_ not! He had too much work to do first!
He thought of the merry words that had passed between him and his
fellow Scouts only a short hour before. How full of life he had been!
Why, he was as full of life now! Nothing had changed! The sun shone
warm upon his upturned face, the air was sweet with the smell of
growing things. A brilliant butterfly settled for a brief moment on
his motionless hand, fluttered, and flew away. A bird rose from a
tree, and, spreading light wings, was soon lost to sight.
How he envied that bird! It was free, while he, worth countless
birds, was held here, where, if help did not come to him soon, he
must die. His boy heart was filled with despair.
But no, he would not despair! He must think of some way to help
himself. There must be some way! Some of the Scouts must be near.
He called again and again, but no answer came back to his straining
ears. He kept his face toward the sky, for he did not dare look down
at that terrible mud, but yet he knew that he was sinking, slowly,
steadily. He could feel that the muck was half way between his knees
and his waist.
If he could only get someone to help him! If he could only make
someone hear! If he only had something--ah, a sudden thought sent
such a thrill of hope through his heart that it fairly hurt.
His whistle--his Scout’s whistle! Why could he not signal with it?
He, like all other Boy Scouts, was familiar with the American Morse
telegraph alphabet. He would try and, placing the whistle to his
lips, he sent out in shrill notes his call for help.
Bob Hart, like Ben Hoover, was on the commissary staff that day,
and was fishing for a mess of trout for dinner in the brook about a
quarter of a mile from the bog.
Pausing to take breath, after a particularly fine fish had been
landed, he wondered what that queer whistle was that came faintly,
yet insistently to his ears. Was it some bird he had never seen or
heard until then? Well, it was a queer, jerky note, anyway.
All at once there was something in that whistle that made him drop
pole and line, and stand listening not only with all his ears, but
with all his heart.
There was something familiar about it. What was it? Ah, now he knew!
It was a signal--a message in the Morse alphabet, and again he
listened intently.
Two short, sharp whistles--that was _I_. One long-drawn, and then
a short whistle--that was _in_. Then in quick succession the other
letters of the message, _In the bog. Help me. Hurry._
Every nerve in Bob’s alert young body responded to that pitiful
call. He ran--he raced--he flew, while always came that cry, “Hurry!
Hurry!” faint at first, but louder as he neared the bog. It seemed as
if his feet were held down with leaden weights. Why could he not go
faster? In his eager heart the wish was repeated again and again, Oh,
if he only had wings!
On, on he sped, and nearer and more insistently came the call,
“Hurry! Hurry!”
Now perhaps he was near enough to call and, raising his clear voice,
he shouted, “Courage! I’m coming! I’m coming!” and sweeter than angel
music the words sounded to Ben Hoover, sunken now to his waist.
A moment more, and Bob was there, encouraging him and promising to
have him out in a jiffy, but this was far more easily said than done.
To find something he could throw to Ben that would serve to keep him
from sinking farther--that was the first thing. After that he would
think of something to do to draw him out.
He pulled some bushes up by the roots and, as he threw them, told
Ben to push them close up against him and rest his arms upon them.
He felt sure they would keep Ben from sinking deeper. They did help,
and for a moment both Scouts thought their problem solved and they
chatted hopefully of the help that Bob was to bring. Vain hope!
Suddenly the bushes sank from view, and in the suction they caused
poor Ben sank lower.
Quickly Bob ran back and forth, searching desperately for something
to throw to his unfortunate comrade. A sapling! A board! Oh, if he
had a board! And as if a miracle, he caught sight of a long one lying
among the trees. How it came there he did not know or care. That it
was there was enough. He ran to it, snatched it up and, running to
the edge of the bog, slid it carefully along until it was within
Ben’s reach.
Carefully, wise now to the fact that the slightest movement made him
sink deeper, Ben drew the board in front of him.
“Don’t bear your full weight upon it,” counselled Bob. “If you just
press upon it lightly with your hands, perhaps it will hold you.”
Poor Ben, eager to do every slightest thing to help himself, obeyed
and, as the board did not seem to sink, again hope sprang up in their
hearts.
Bob wanted to go at once for the desperately needed help, but Ben,
terrified at the thought of being left alone, begged him to wait a
few minutes until they were sure the board would hold him up until
Bob could go and return.
“Keep up your courage, old man,” said Bob. “If that board holds--and
I feel sure it will--we’ll be all right. I’ll do a regular Marathon
up to camp. Harry and Pete are cooks this week, you know. They will
come back with me, and we’ll bring everything we can lay our hands on
to help. It will be mighty strange if we three husky fellows can’t
get one boy out of a fix! So you just be gay thinking about it, old
fellow. We’ll have you out before you know it.”
As he finished speaking, Bob arose and with a last wave of
encouragement to poor Ben, he started on a run for camp. But that
Marathon was never run.
Hardly had Bob gone a hundred yards from the bog than he heard Ben’s
imploring voice calling, “Come back, Bob! Come back! The board is
beginning to sink!”
Bob came tearing back in answer to that pitiful summons to find that
in truth the board was sinking a little in the mud. Beginning at the
heavier end, it slowly sank out of sight, and as it disappeared drew
the boy a little farther down.
He had now sunk halfway between the waist and shoulders. Now, indeed,
did both Scouts begin to despair. Half-crazed, Bob ran wildly up and
down, whistling shrilly, frantically searching for something with
which to aid his comrade.
There was nothing! He could do no more!
He stood, outwardly calm, but with his heart dying within him as he
watched Ben’s efforts to be brave as his last hope vanished.
“That’s right, dear old fellow,” said Bob, “keep up a brave heart!
I’m sure that help will come! I’m sure! Oh, Ben, if we only had a
rope!”