DEVIL'S BOG
Dawn finally came, and they waited anxiously for the light to filter
through the trees sufficiently for them to be on their way. It was a
disheartening sight that the light disclosed, for nothing but trees and
swamp seemed to surround them and they could see no road or trail.
Skippy had been to the top of the tree, but it was not high enough for
a lookout. "There's so many other trees higher'n this, it can't be
done," he said, disappointed. "An' how we gonna climb those high trees
when they can't be climbed, huh?"
Nickie shrugged his shoulders. "The next thing we gotta think of is
chow."
Skippy grinned. "We got lots of mud--nothing but. Gee whiz, I'm hungry."
"It's too bad we couldn't 'a' knocked off that blamed owl, hah? We'd
'a' got some sleep maybe an' we'd 'a' had some breakfast on his fat
neck."
They started off with high hopes. It was all a chance, Skippy reasoned,
and they hadn't any idea what direction would be best. The thing to do,
then, was to go and keep on going, trusting to luck that they would
come out somewhere.
They wallowed through miles and miles of mud, trying with long sticks
each dubious looking stretch of swamp in their path. Often they were
forced to turn back and circle great pools of silent black water where
on the thick green scum the thin rays of sunlight smiled in derision.
And then noonday arrived, with the sun hot and mocking directly over
the tops of the trees. Below in Devil's Bog was a steaming heat that
seemed to hiss out of the black, miry ground and every stir of air soon
lost its freshness in the dank smell of the place.
Toward mid-afternoon Nickie lost his head a little. "S'pose we
shouldn't get out, kid?" he cried. "S'pose we should go on like this
for days--we'd starve--we'd be eaten up with them mosquitoes or
somethin'."
Skippy tried to laugh. "I'd rather be eaten up with _somethin'_,
Nickie--honest!"
"Aw, I know, kid. Here, I'm older'n you--I shouldn't lose my head.
Looks like I'm yeller, hah?"
"Go on--it looks like you're mud and so'm I. Gee whiz, my aunt'd have a
fit if she could see this suit. She paid six bucks for it on a Hundred
and Twenty-fifth Street."
"Holy Smoke, will we ever see a Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street again!
Kid, if we'd only waited a little while longer, hah? Devlin had been
nosin' in that bog since he left the house an' we saw he was on his way
to Hillbriar. If we'd only waited--the coast woulda been clear."
"What's the use thinkin' about 'if'? Gee whiz, we're here an' that's
all there's to it. Anyway, we got each other. Poor Frost, in a way I
feel kinda sorry for him if he's wand'rin' 'round like us. It must be
terrible havin' no buddy to talk to in a place like this."
Nickie was touched. "I didn't think of it that way, kid. I oughta be
glad an' I _am_ glad. I'd know somethin' all right, all right, if I
didn' have you. Didn't I say it seemed like Fate you'n me took such a
shine to each other? Anyways, I felt you was regular the minute you
come in the car."
Skippy looked at him. Somehow he hadn't thought about Nickie
particularly--he had never defined his feelings except that he knew he
disliked the boy that the old Nickie represented, the sullen, defiant
and lawless Nickie. But the new Nickie, and there _was_ a new one,
walking and suffering beside him; he was kind, thoughtful and best of
all loyal.
He put his arm through Nickie's. "I like you the way you are now--you
know it! An' if you stay that way--you know what I mean--cut out the
slippery stuff an' do like your aunt wants you to, I think mebbe Mr.
Conne would stand your probation."
"You mean he'd get me sprung?" Nickie asked, incredulously.
"If you'd promise to be like you are now an' stick to it--that's
showin' how much of a friend you are, Nickie."
Nickie stopped and put out his slim, muddy hand. "There's my mitt on
it, pal!" he grinned. Then he looked puzzled. "Say, how come you got so
much drag with Carlton Conne--that big dick, hah?"
It was Skippy's turn to grin. "Sump'n tells me Mr. Conne would say it
was all right for me to tell _you_. Listen...."
And Nickie listened, fascinated. They trudged along arm in arm, digging
into the mire before them with their sticks and forgetting, as Skippy
talked, that they were weary and hungry and almost despairing.
The afternoon was waning when they noticed that the trees were
beginning to thin out ahead. The underbrush was much less dense and
therefore they were able to walk faster despite the fact that the
ground was even more miry than any they had yet encountered.
Skippy was beginning to feel a little hope. Were they not almost out of
the woods when the trees thinned out like this? He had almost convinced
himself that they were, when he saw just before him several large
footsteps in the slimy ground.
His finger trembled as he pointed to them. "Look, Nickie!"
Nickie nodded his head slowly and whispered, "Devlin's!"
They were standing there trying to decide whether to run or not when
they saw, still a little farther on, a dark object lying on the ground.
There was something so significant about its size and shape that a
mutual horror of it impelled them on, despite themselves.
Frost was lying face downward in the mud.
Skippy bit at his under lip to keep from shouting. Nickie had grasped
his arm and was shaking like an aspen leaf. Suddenly, they heard a
sound from behind a tree not ten feet distant.
Devlin stepped out before they could move. He was grave, unsmiling as
ever and his eyes glittered coldly. "Too bad, isn't it," he said
enigmatically.
Skippy could only gasp; Nickie could only shake.
"It's dangerous to run off in this bog," Devlin boomed in his funereal
voice. "A person can meet almost any kind of a death, as you see. You
boys might be lying there instead of Frost, eh? Well, it's lucky I
found you."
It was too true--Devlin had found them!