By the time these preparations were completed it was dark. Ted thought they ought to remain awake and keep more or less active all night, in order to stave off severe colds; but they were both too exhausted to persevere in such efforts. Seated on the cushioned cypress bark, and leaning their backs against a tree, the wet moss drawn up over them, they soon subsided into quiet of limb and tongue, and after a long while fell into troubled, dream-haunted slumber.
"We'll never get home," moaned Hubert, breaking down at last, while still they talked, sitting there in the thick darkness.
Ted made no reply at once. He was thinking how different had been the experience of the heroes of romance wrecked on unknown islands or lost in desolate places. None of these, so far as he could remember, had ever suffered such continuing miseries of body and mind as he and Hubert had to endure; there always seemed to be a wreck at hand with plenty of good things on board to eat, and the castaways could at least manage to sleep warm and dry.
"We are going to starve to death in this swamp," moaned Hubert.
"Not a bit of it," said Ted with forced cheerfulness, cutting off abruptly his own complaining train of thought. "Now, Hu, you are not really giving up, I know; you only think you are," he continued, leaning affectionately against his cousin. "Brace up like the man you really are. Just think how much better off we are than some people. Think of our soldiers in the trenches at night in bad weather. In some ways we are as uncomfortable, but think how much safer we are. There are no Germans to sneak poison-gas over on us in the dark."
"There are no Germans, but there are moccasins," said Hubert dolefully.
"I'll just bet that was the only one on this island," Ted declared stoutly, although he feared there were at least a dozen. "Don't think about them. Think of what we are going to do tomorrow, and we are going to get out of this swamp—or pretty nearly. Things come out all right after a while; I never saw it fail. You know, Hu, I like to think of the grand pluck of old Socrates—I've heard Uncle Walter quote him—when he said: 'No evil can befall a good man, whether he be alive or dead.' That means, if weare truthful and manly, and harm nobody, and do our best, we're all right, or going to be all right, whatever happens. And you and I are goin' to be all right soon, too. You'll see."
Whether it was the result of this comforting philosophy or sheer physical exhaustion, Hubert became quiet and soon fell asleep. But it was long before poor Ted, sitting alone in the dark, could do for himself what he had so manfully done for his cousin. If a discerning eye had looked down through the night, helplessness, even despair, would have been seen in his face. And then, all at once, somehow help came to Ted, too; his courage returned, and with it a certain restfulness of body which presently brought sleep.
AS the first gray light of morning struggled through the mist still enveloping the marsh, Ted started up and looked about him. His attention was at once attracted to a white sand-hill crane fully five feet in height standing on a point of the little island about fifty yards distant.
Seizing his long stick, the boy crept toward the fowl behind the screen offered by the cassina bushes. He hoped to knock it down, thinking that even the fishy flesh of a crane would be found palatable by two half-starved boys. But the wary bird spread wide its wings and flew away in the mist long before Ted was near enough to use his weapon. He smiled faintly as he faced his failure, calling to mind the story told him when a very little boy that he could catch any bird in existence if he could get near enough to put salt on its tail. He remembered at least one unsuccessful attempt to catch a mocking-bird by such means, before he appreciated the joke, and reflected thatit would be about as easy to salt a crane's tail as to creep up near enough to knock it down with a stick.
Both Ted and Hubert found themselves suffering with sore throat and their limbs were numb and cold; but they felt more or less rested and their hunger was less sharp than on the night before. On the whole, they felt better, and were eager to go forward in the hope of improving their condition. Ted said that if they could see the island they had left the day before, he would favor going straight back there; but that if they attempted to return in the fog, there were a thousand chances to one that they would go astray, and he therefore thought that they had better take the risk of pushing forward. Hubert agreed, preferring to leave the decision to his more experienced cousin in any case.
So they struggled through the "trembling" and breaking "earth" surrounding the little island, got their log afloat, pushed it out into the little stream, and swam with the slow current as on the day before. Although their exertions soon began to tell on them, weakened for lack of food as they were, they pushed forward heroically for hours,landing to rest two or three times on the dreary and inhospitable "houses."
Toward mid-afternoon, while swimming with one arm over the rear end of the log, Hubert's feet became entangled in the rushes; and, losing his hold on the log, he was drawn beneath the water just as a faint cry escaped him. Ted looked back in time to see him go down, and, swimming to his aid, succeeded in extricating him after he had swallowed several gulps of water and was partially strangled.
Meanwhile the log had floated with the current and lodged among the "bonnets" nearly two hundred yards down stream. This distance Ted was obliged to swim without artificial aid, meanwhile supporting Hubert, who was almost helpless. The last few yards was the scene of a desperate struggle to keep above water until the log could be grasped.
After resting on their log until somewhat revived, they painfully made their way to the nearest "house," realizing that they could travel no further that day. Indeed, Ted secretly feared that they might never be able to leave the island without help, so feverish and exhausted had bothhe and Hubert become. The first thing he did after landing and resting, therefore, was to tie his handkerchief to one end of his long stick and thrust the other end into the soft ground in an open spot, hoping thus to attract the attention of any boat that might pass the neighborhood.
That night was even more trying and uncomfortable than the preceding. They were again unable to start a fire, and lay down as before on cypress bark and damp moss, the hunger that gnawed them becoming more and more hard to endure. Though he made a brave effort, Ted found himself unable to appear to be as cheerfully optimistic as on the night before. In his feverishness and misery words often failed him, but he unselfishly maintained an attitude of tenderness and sympathy toward Hubert whose lachrymal ducts knew no restraint and discharged their entire store of tears.
"Never mind, we'll get out of this to-morrow," promised Ted in his gentlest voice, over and over; but, struggle as he might, there was lack of genuine hopefulness in his tone.
The morning of the third day dawned bright and clear. Not a vestige of the fog was to beseen anywhere on the great marsh. Although now really ill, their heads throbbing with fever and pain, the boys felt cheered by this change. In every direction except one they were unable to see anything but an expanse of marsh dotted with "houses"; but in that one direction they clearly discerned, not more than two or three miles away, a wall of green pines, indicating either the mainland or a large island. With great satisfaction they noted also that the intervening marsh, though covered with water at points, was not of a character to necessitate swimming.
Hopeful once more, they started eagerly toward the green wall of pines, soon finding, however, that it was no easy matter to cross this portion of the marsh, scantily covered with water though it was. Much of it was treacherous quagmire, and the boys sometimes sank down suddenly in the mud to their armpits. Once Hubert sank up to his neck, and nothing but his long stick saved him. They had left their log behind, but fortunately carried their long poles.
It was near noon when they at length reached the high land where the pine trees grew. After plunging into a neighboring pool of comparativelyclear water in order to wash the mud and slime from their bodies and clothing, the boys climbed wearily up the slope and lay down in the warm sunshine, shading their faces with palmetto leaves. Here they rested several hours, for the most part in troubled, feverish slumber.
Rousing himself at last, Ted coaxed Hubert to his feet, and again they pushed forward wearily. The vegetation of the island, if island it were, was found to be unusually dense and wild. After gaining the crest of the slope, where, on the other islands, a comparatively open pine ridge was usually found, they were confronted by the brambles of the jungle and immense thickets of blackjack or scrub-oak. An hour later they emerged upon an open pine barren, where the underbrush consisted chiefly of tyty, hemleaf and fan-palmetto. Here progress was easier, but now Hubert fell rather than sat upon the grass, declaring that he could go no further.
"I feel as if my head would burst," he said, staring about him stupidly.
After trying in vain to encourage him to further effort, Ted, who really felt no better, decided to push on alone.
"You stay here and rest, Hu," he said, "while I look around for a good place to camp. The matches are dry now and I think we can have a fire to-night."
It was now late in the afternoon and Ted realized that he must exert himself. Pushing forward, he chanced upon something like a trail, followed it for nearly a mile, and, just as the sun sank out of sight, he stole guardedly through an oak thicket, halted on its borders, and looked into an open space where a camp fire burned.
Everywhere in the little clearing there were evidences of a long sojourn. The stumps of several trees showed that the felling had been done months, perhaps a year or more, before. Curing hides hung against the trees; tools and cooking utensils lay about on the grass. A pot swung over the fire from a tripod of three long sticks, and in it there evidently simmered a savory stew. No dog was aroused by Ted's approach, and the boy looked long, without interruption, at everything, including the sole occupant of the clearing, an old man with a long white beard who sat on the ground near the fire, his back to the observer.Ted turned quietly, retraced his steps through the thicket, and hurried back over the trail.
"Oh, Hubert," he cried, as soon as he was within speaking distance, "I've found a camp and an old man cooking supper!"
But the younger boy merely looked up stupidly and spoke of his aching head. Resolutely employing all his remaining strength, Ted lifted Hubert to his feet, and, with his arm around him, coaxing and dragging, he forced him slowly along the trail toward the stranger's camp. Arrived within the fire-lighted circle just after night had fallen, he allowed Hubert to collapse upon the grass, and then, holding out appealing hands, he cried:
"Help us—please help us!"
The old man started up in amazement and, judging from the expression of his face, even alarm. He appeared not to have heard the approaching footsteps because of deafness, and now seemed to expect a further invasion of the privacy of his camp.
"Who're you?" he asked in a bewildered way. "Whur in the dickance did you boys come from?"
Ted did not answer. His remaining strengthfailed him, and he dropped upon the grass by Hubert's side, but his eyes still appealed.
"Are you sick?"
"Starving," answered Ted, hardly above a whisper.
A wave of compassion swept over the old man. He almost leaped to the fire; and, quickly dipping something from the pot into a tin cup, he blew his breath upon it several times in order to cool it, then hurried back to the prostrate boys, knelt beside them, and offered the cup to Ted. But the boy gently pushed it away and motioned toward his cousin, indicating that Hubert was in the greater need and should be attended to first.
Having partaken of the nourishment which presently was offered him in turn, Ted fell asleep, or fainted—he could not afterward tell which—and there followed a blank. When he again opened his eyes and looked about him, he lay on a bed of moss covered with blankets in what was evidently a log cabin of one large room. In a few moments the door, which stood ajar, was thrown wide, and the old man of the long white beard entered the room, a cheerful expression appearing on his kindly face as he met the boy's eye.
"You feel better now, I reckon," he said, seating himself on a pile of moss near Ted's bed.
"Where am I?" The boy's voice was weak but eager.
"In my house," was the reassuring reply. "You've been pretty bad off—sort o' wanderin' in yer mind. But you're all right now."
"Where's Hubert?" The boy's voice was now stronger, but indicated anxiety.
"He's outside. He got up and went out this mornin'. He's all right. He had fever from cold and exposure, but you was the sickest of the two. You've been on a harder strain, I reckon."
"How long have I been here?"
"Three days. I was afraid it was goin' to be typhoid, but it was jes' a nervous fever from starvation and so much exposure. It was mighty high, though, for a while. T'other boy tole me how you-all's been lost and a-wanderin' in the swamp. You boys sure has seen sights."
"Are we out of the swamp at last?" asked Ted eagerly.
"Not by a long jump. You're on Blackjack,one o' the biggest islands." Noting the boy's sigh of disappointment, the old man added: "But don't worry. You lay quiet till to-morrow, and then I'll tell you more about it, and show you the way out o' the swamp."
"Oh, thank you. You are very kind."
With such a prospect in view, it would be easy to lie quiet until the morrow, it being now late in the afternoon. Ted wanted to ask many questions, but he submitted when his host bade him be quiet and withdrew. A few minutes later Hubert entered, with a smile on his face, and the boys congratulated each other.
"I think we are safe at last," said Ted, relaxing on his bed and beginning really to rest.
"Yes, I think we are," said Hubert. "That Mr. George Smith is very kind, though he is a queer old duck. He looks just like a ram-goat with that long beard running down into a point. He's been camping and trapping here for years. I was afraid to tell him that we had been kept prisoners on Deserters' Island. I haven't said a thing about the slackers."
"Perhaps that was just as well," said Ted, dreamily, and soon fell asleep.
An hour or more later his eyes filled with tears of gratitude as his elderly host brought in a delicious quail stew for his supper.
"To-morrow," the old man promised, "I'll show you how I shoots them partridges."
Ted knew that he should have said quail instead of partridges, but was too polite to correct him.
"Do you think we could start out to-morrow?" asked the boy, after he had eaten and thanked his host.
"Better wait a little longer. It'll be a long pull and you ought to be rested up," advised the old man. "Hubert says you want to git to Judge Ridgway's. I know where that is. We kin boat it a piece o' the way and then tramp it till I put you on the trail. You strike the trail on a big peninsula runnin' in the swamp. Then all you got to do is to follow that trail about ten miles till you git to your uncle's neighborhood."
All Ted's anxieties dropped from him as he listened. Home had not seemed so near since the day he and Hubert were lost in the swamp, and when he fell asleep he dreamed that he was actually there.
IN the morning, feeling well and strong, Ted rose early and followed Hubert out of the cabin to the camp fire. There their attention was attracted to two large fox-squirrels lying on the grass.
"I shot 'em befo' you waked up," said their host, who was busily preparing the morning meal. "The woods is chock full of 'em."
Both boys ate a hearty breakfast, after which Ted felt so fully restored that he declared he was ready for the hardest kind of a tramp. But he was again advised to wait till the following morning.
The boys spent the day talking with their new friend, gathering young "greens" from his little vegetable garden, giving some help toward the preparation of the meals, and lying about on the grass and sleeping. Ted took great interest in a bow belonging to and manufactured by the old trapper, considering himself highly favored onbeing allowed to shoot away two or three arrows, which latter he diligently searched for and returned to their owner. Both bow and arrows were made of ash, the latter being tipped with sharpened bits of steel. The bow-string was made of tough gut of the wild-cat.
"You-all come go with me now, if you want to see some fun," said Mr. Smith at sundown.
He then took bow and arrows and led the boys about a quarter of a mile away in the woods, telling them he would show them how "partridges" (quail) roosted at night. When the place was reached twilight had fallen, but a dozen or more of the birds were distinctly seen squatting near each other in the wiregrass.
"Now watch me bag 'em," said the old trapper; and, lifting his bow, he bent it almost double, the string twanged, and the arrow sped on its way.
Again and again the bow twanged, and in amazement the boys began to see, as they did not at first, that each flying arrow cut off the head of a quail. The neighboring birds looked startled, turning their heads from side to side as if striving to pierce the gathering gloom, but there was no noisy plunge of the remainder of the covey untilthe old man had shot as often as he wished and stepped forward to gather up his arrows and the slain.
"You see, I shoots 'm in the head to keep from sp'ilin' the meat," he smilingly explained.
"What a fine shot you are!" exclaimed both boys in a breath.
"I could never do that in the world," said Ted.
"It took me years to learn that trick, but I learned it, and you could, too, if you tried hard," the old trapper said, generous in his pardonable pride.
As they sat about the fire after supper the subject of the war came up. The trapper asked for news and Ted outlined the general situation as he had understood it before the swamp misadventure cut him off from sources of information.
"If I was young enough I'd be in it," declared their host, much to Ted's satisfaction, going on to say that the Civil War was over before he was quite old enough and that the Spanish-American war was over almost before he heard of it, for he was in the Okefinokee that very year. "And now I'm too old to be a soldier," he concluded, with a smile and a sigh.
"I've heard my Uncle Walter say that 'the will is almost as good as the deed,'" remarked Ted politely.
"From all I hear them Germans is a mighty bad crowd, and they need the worst thrashin' any lot of people ever got," the trapper continued. "And the young men o' this country ought to see that they git it good and heavy. But some of 'em ain't goin' about it right. Some of 'em is kickin' about the draft, and some of 'em is scared to death; and they tell me some of 'em ishidin' out."
The old man spat in his disgust. The boys became alert, perceiving that he had knowledge of and was thinking of the camp of slackers on Deserters' Island. They looked at each other significantly and waited for him to go on.
"But it ain'tmybusiness to see that the sheriff is on his job," continued old George Smith, stroking his long beard. "I'm a old man, and I got to live in peace, 'speshly these days when there's young men without a particle of respect for gray hairs. I 'tends to my own business."
"My uncle said he heard that there were someslackers hiding in this swamp," said Ted, cautiously and invitingly.
"Mebby so; the Oke-fi-noke's a big place," responded the old man, after a moment of perceptible hesitation. "I don't see," he quickly added, "why there's all this kickin' about the draft. They drafted 'em 'way back in the sixties, South and North, too. We got to have it that way."
"My uncle says it's the fairest as well as the quickest plan."
"Ther must be more chicken-hearted young men now than ther was in my young days," remarked Mr. Smith. He fell into a thoughtful silence, from which he roused himself suddenly, saying: "Well, let's go to bed. Got to git up bright and early in the mornin'."
It was evident that he did not intend to speak openly of Deserters' Island. The boys were no less inclined to be cautious, not knowing what his personal relations with the slackers might be. After an exchange of significant glances, they tacitly agreed to keep silent also, at least for the present. It troubled Ted to think that an honest, patriotic man, such as their host appeared to be, should place his "peace" above his duty to inform against the hiding slackers, but he took comfort in the thought that the fugitives from the draft would not long be left in quiet possession of Deserters' Island.
"Mr. Smith won't tell on 'em," he whispered to Hubert after they had gone to bed, "but just wait till we get home. Uncle Walter will have the sheriff starting into this swamp in a day's time."
When a woodpecker, boring loudly into the cabin's roof, roused him next morning, Ted saw that the sun was shining, realized that he had overslept, and wondered why he had not been called. Hearing voices outside, he conjectured that the old trapper had been delayed by the arrival of visitors. But what visitors? The boy thought instantly of Deserters' Island, which was undoubtedly the nearest inhabited area within many miles. In sudden fear, he checked the noisy movements he was making. Then, listening intently, he heard the unmistakable voice of Sweet Jackson!
Creeping to the front wall, Ted peeped out through a crack between the logs, and at once his eyes confirmed the evidence presented by his ears. Sweet Jackson and Mitch' Jenkins, their gunsacross their knees, were seated near the camp fire eating the breakfast the old trapper was serving them.
"We wanted to make yo' camp last night," Jackson was saying, "but we was too fur. When we made it up to come over this-a way, I thought I'd bring a hide to trade for some plug-tobacco."
"Well, I'll trade," said old Mr. Smith, with his usual good-natured manner.
Ted bounded softly back to the bed and, bending down, shook Hubert.
"Quit pushin' me," complained Hubert, still half asleep.
"Hush!" whispered Ted warningly. "Look at me! Listen, and don't make a noise. Some of theslackersare out there!"
Hubert's rebelliousness disappeared on the instant, and he stared at his cousin in silent fright. Then he, too, heard Jackson's voice, whereupon he started up, looking wildly about, as if for some means of escape.
Without waiting to say more Ted hurried back to his peep-hole.
"Can't we slip out and run?" whispered Hubert as soon as he reached Ted's side.
"How can we? There's no window on the back and they are facing this way. They'd see us. We've got to stay right here till they go away, or till we get a chance to slip out."
"But what if they should come in here?" suggested Hubert.
"We'll have to risk it."
The breakfast was now over, and the two slackers rose to their feet. A few moments later the excited boys took note that all three of the men stood with their backs to the cabin door.
"Now's our chance," whispered Hubert. "Let's slip out, sneak round the house and run off."
"We'd better wait, I think," said Ted. "They might turn round on us before we——"
The boy stopped suddenly, for now the old trapper and Jackson turned, the latter saying: "Well, bring out your tobacco." The former moved toward the cabin accordingly.
"Let's lie down and pretend to be asleep, so they won't hear him speak to us," hurriedly proposed Ted.
When the trapper stepped into the room the slumber of the two boys appeared to be profound.He looked at them, smiled, and, as if deciding not to call them till later, went about the business of the moment, bending down over a large covered box with his back to them. Noting all this, Ted congratulated himself upon the success of his plan. It did not occur to him that curiosity might bring Jenkins into the cabin, or that the officious Jackson might wish to see for himself how large a store of tobacco the cabin contained.
So when a heavy tread was heard at the door, the boy faced the unforeseen as well as the affrighting. There was now nothing left for him and Hubert to do but cover their faces with their blankets and lie still, which they did, fearing that the very beating of their hearts would be heard.
The less curious Jenkins might have overlooked them, in the subdued light of the interior, but Jackson's roving eyes alighted on their outlined figures almost at once.
"Who-all's this?" he asked sharply. "I see you got comp'ny."
"Jes' two boys that got lost huntin' in the swamp," answered the old man quietly. "I kep' 'em a day or two to rest up. They had a hard time and was real sick."
"Two boys?" echoed Sweet Jackson, in tones of keen expectancy; and, stepping across the intervening space, he roughly tore away the coverings and exposed to view the shrinking boys.
For a moment Hubert seemed about to obey an impulse to hide his face in the moss of the bed, but Ted rose promptly and faced Jackson with a steady, watchful gaze.
"So you come over this-a way, did you?" cried Jackson, with a triumphant grin. "Wasn't it lucky that I come, too, just in time!" he sneered.
"Why, do you know them boys?" asked the old swamp-squatter, turning, in great surprise.
"Know'em? They belongs to our camp," declared Jackson. "I want more than yo' tobacco, old man; I want them boys."
"Wedon'tbelong to their camp," cried Ted, his voice unsteady, addressing the old man. "We only found our way there when we got lost, and then they wouldn't let us go because they were afraid we'd tell on them."
"Why didn't you tell me before?" asked the old man, greatly troubled.
"I wish I had," said Ted. "We waited to tellyou and then—then—we thought, maybe, we'd better not."
"He's lyin'," said Jackson glibly. "He was scared to tell you they'd run away from where they belonged."
Jenkins turned upon Jackson with an indignant manner, but hesitated, and seemed to decide to keep silent. Noting this with discouragement, Ted checked an angry response to the insult and turned again to the old man:
"Everything I have told you is the truth. Won't you stand by us?"
The old swamp-squatter looked sharply from man to boy and back again, his expression indicating great disturbance of mind.
"If you are a-takin' them boys without the right to do it," he said, "you may havedoubletrouble on yer hands befo' long."
"That'smybusiness, and you'd better 'tend to your'n—if you know what's good for you!" There was menace in Jackson's tone.
The old man surrendered the plugs of tobacco with a trembling hand, then took a step toward Ted.
"You see, the trouble is," he said, rather pitifully, "that I can't take the word of two boys agin the word of two men. If they claims you, I can't stop 'em. But I'm awful sorry because I've thought a heap o' you boys."
"Thank you," said Ted huskily, comprehending the old swamp-squatter's helplessness, and moved to make a polite acknowledgment of the compliment even at such a moment.
"Will you go peaceable, or do you want a whippin'?" demanded Jackson.
"Better go peaceable," advised the old man, speaking gently. Ted turned and exchanged glances with Hubert. They read in each other's eyes the conviction that there was nothing to be done but yield for the time, and that it was better to yield without a struggle than to suffer intolerable indignities and brutal usage. After swallowing hard, like one taking a bitter dose, Ted announced in a low voice that they were ready to go.
"Come on, then, and be quick about it," ordered Jackson, striding out of the cabin.
Jenkins and the boys followed. The old man lingered in the doorway, looking very sorrowful.
As the party was crossing the clearing to takethe trail through the woods, Ted suddenly announced that he would have to "thank Mr. Smith for his hospitality," and, before he could be hindered, ran back to the door of the cabin. Jackson and Jenkins halted, turning to look on curiously as the boy performed this social duty.
"You've been very kind, Mr. Smith, and we thank you very much," said Ted, loudly enough for all to hear. Then, with his back to the slackers, he added in a low voice: "There'sonething you can do to help us. You know where Judge Ridgway lives and——"
"That's all right, Ted, honey," the old man loudly interrupted. "You sure are welcome to what little I did for you boys."
This speech was accompanied by three distinct pressures of Ted's hand which seemed satisfactorily significant. The old man then turned to shake hands with Hubert, who had been permitted to follow Ted.
"When are you goin' out again, Mr. Smith?" called out Jackson.
"I think it'll be some while," was the answer.
But when the old swamp-squatter was leftalone in his clearing, his activities seemed to show that he had suddenly changed his mind.
"What's to keep that old man from goin' out and tellin' on our whole crowd?" asked Jenkins, as soon as they were out of hearing.
"He's scared o' me—that's what," was the confident answer.
Jackson halted as he spoke, took some heavy string out of his pocket, and, suddenly seizing Ted from behind, began to tie his hands. Protesting in hot indignation, the boy struggled so fiercely that Jenkins was called on for help.
"Not on your life," said Jenkins, standing apart. "I won't touch him. I ain't a party to this thing.Youare takin' them boys, not me. I'm jes' walkin' long with you. You don't need to tie 'em anyhow. If they was to cut and run, you could easy catch one, and the other wouldn't stay off by himself."
But Jackson persisted. Checking Ted's resistance with violent language and ugly threats, he had his will, then served the protesting but unresisting Hubert in the same way.
"I know my business, Mitch' Jenkins," he said. "They ain't a-goin' to give me the slip this time."
Then followed a tramp of about two miles to the point of the island where the slackers had left their bateau. Much of the route was covered with dense thicket and bramble-infested jungle, and the boys suffered. Sometimes, when they stumbled and fell, or pushed through thorny brush, being unable to use their arms and hands, they received painful scratches or blows on face or head. Finally Ted rebelled, throwing himself down and persisting doggedly at all threatened costs.
"I won't go another step until you untie our hands," he declared, setting his teeth. "You can beat me if you are devil enough," he informed Jackson, with blazing eyes and unflinching calm, "but I won't budge."
Jackson swore furiously and lifted his foot to kick, but was checked by Jenkins, who said:
"And if you beat him, you may have to beat me."
Then the two men glared at and paid their respects to each other in unprintable language. Hubert hoped that they would fight hard and long, and that in the midst of it he and Ted might run away; but, as usual, the cowardice beneathSweet Jackson's bullying exterior showed itself. He discharged much violent language, but prudently declined the contest of physical strength offered by Jenkins.
"What did you come in this swamp for, anyhow?" he demanded. "You ain't worth a cent."
"You kin find out what I'm worth if you want to," goaded Jenkins.
"Oh, shucks!" cried Jackson, with a show of vast disgust; and taking out his knife, he cut both Ted's and Hubert's bonds, intimating that he washed his hands of the consequences.
After that peace was restored, the tramp was resumed, and more rapid progress was made.
THEY landed on Deserters' Island late in the afternoon. The news of their arrival appeared to reach the camp ahead of the captive boys, for as soon as they followed the upward path through the swamp-cane to the outskirts of the familiar clearing they saw July running to meet them. The negro's smiling expressions of delight at sight of them were checked by his recollection that they were returning to captivity.
"I sho is sorry dey cotch you if I is glad to see you," he apologized. "But, Cap'n Ted, you won't have such a hard time dis time 'cause de gen'l'mens is got back an' now de dawgs'll have to keep dey place."
Ted did not wait for an explanation of this mysterious announcement, for he now saw Buck Hardy standing near the sleeping-loft and ran eagerly toward him.
"Oh, Mr. Hardy," he cried, in enormous relief and satisfaction, "I'msoglad to see you. We'vehad a terrible time since you left. I—I—I hope your mother is better."
Buck smiled down on the delighted boy, warmly clasping his hand.
"She's all right now, thank you, kid," he said. "Sorry I had to stay outside so long. Just got back two hours ago—with Peters and Jones. So you've had a terrible time, eh? July has been tellin' me, but he don't know it all, and I want to know it all up to this minute. Did Sweet Jackson do anything to you after he caught you? Did he—whip you—or——"
"He would have, if it hadn't been for Mr. Jenkins."
"Tell me all about it."
After walking into the clearing attended by the pleased and garrulous negro, Hubert shook hands with Al Peters and Bud Jones, but awaited his turn to speak to Buck Hardy, not wishing to interrupt the big slacker's earnest conversation with Ted. As he looked around, Hubert saw Billy seated a short distance away and wondered why he seemed to take no interest in their arrival. Judging from past experience, he would have expected the half-wit not only to be pleased but evento caper around him and Ted, giggling and shouting his expressions of gratification. But now Billy seemed to be intently contemplating some object in the grass at his feet and to be oblivious of everything else.
The news of the return of Hardy, Peters and Jones evidently reached Jackson before he came up from the landing, for when he appeared he had a conscious and depressed air. He spoke a perfunctory greeting to Peters and Jones and then, as he busied himself about the camp, his roving glance frequently returned in a stealthy sort of way to Buck Hardy where he stood questioning and listening to Ted. His manner was expectant and he probably was not surprised when Buck, turning from the boy toward the groups near the fire, called out:
"Sweet Jackson!"
Jackson pretended not to hear and sought to delay the coming reckoning.
"Billy! You Billy," he called sharply, "go bring me some fresh water."
The absorbed Billy looked up for a moment with an air of one rudely awakened from a dream, but he did not move and his eyes promptly returned to the object in the grass that seemed to fascinate him.
"Don't you hear me?" shouted Jackson.
"Don't you hearme?" shouted Buck. "Sweet Jackson, step out h-yuh and take yo' whippin'."
Jackson could pretend inattention no longer. Planning to force the other men to interfere while storming at Billy, he now whipped a revolver out of his pocket and wheeled round.
"Drop it," ordered Buck. "I've got you covered. I expected this and I was ready."
Two men rushed to Jackson's side, he permitted Zack James to take his weapon, and moved a step or two forward. Then Buck took his hand from the revolver in his coat pocket.
"What I done to you, Buck Hardy?" demanded Jackson with as blustering an air as he could support.
"Nothin'," answered Buck. "You know better'n to do anything tome. It's what you've done to two helpless boys when I was gone.Youknow what I'm talkin' about. I can be sorry for a natural-born coward. If I saw you runnin' from the draft officers and hollerin' that you wished you was a baby and agalbaby at that, I'd be sorryfor you. But I can't stand a man that's a coward underneath and a bully on top whenever he thinks there's nobody to stop him. I whipped you once for beatin' on that po' weak-minded Billy. This time it's for what you did to two as nice boys as there ever was. I'd whip you for it if every man in this camp stood behind you. But there ain't nobody to stand behind you because they all despise you."
This withering speech and his fear of certain punishment combined caused Jackson's lip to twitch nervously. He doubled his fists and prepared to ward off the coming blows, determining to strike back at the outset in order to lessen his disgrace by a stubborn show of fight. But, try to stand his ground as he might, he found himself retreating backward before his advancing enemy.
Before Hardy had arrived within striking distance Jackson had backed into Billy and trodden upon the half-wit's outstretched legs.
"Git out o' my way!" stormed the retreating man, glad to divert attention from himself.
Billy sprang up and jumped out of reach, as if believing that he had been attacked. Then he faced his supposed foe, a strange glow in his eyes.
Suddenly Sweet Jackson became aware that he was treading upon some soft living body, which yielded beneath his weight and struggled in a peculiar, writhing way. As his glance swept downward, he heard a harsh rattling sound and saw that he stood upon a large coiled snake.
The look of mortal terror on his face and his gasp of horror caused Buck Hardy to stop in his tracks, and several of the on-lookers to start forward, just as the rattler struck the unfortunate man on the right leg above the ankle. With a wild cry Jackson jumped—too late!
With a wild cry Jackson jumped—too late!
A laugh at such a moment was the most unexpected and shocking thing in the world, and for the moment it drew every eye to Billy, who, giggling, cried out:
"That's right, son! Give it to him, son!"
Then Ted and Hubert and July comprehended what had happened before Jackson, in an agony of alarm, staggered out into the open, crying that he had been bitten by a rattlesnake and calling for help.
"I'm mighty glad I hadn't hit him," murmured Buck Hardy, as he joined those who, grabbingsticks and guns, started in pursuit of the snake which was now rapidly crawling away.
The rattler was quickly overtaken and killed, greatly to the indignation and sorrow of Billy. Then the attention of all was centered upon Jackson, who now sat with his back against a tree, tearing off shoe and sock in a hurried, terrified way, groaning aloud and shuddering in horror. The wound, when exposed, was seen to be swelling already.
"If anybody's got any whisky, for God's sake bring it out," shouted Buck Hardy.
He looked from one face to another, as heads were shaken, several reminding him that they were in a prohibition State. Only Jim Carter admitted that he had "just a smodgykin" saved up for a time of need. He ran to the sleeping-loft and returned with a flask containing less than half a pint of colorless whisky. This was forthwith poured down Jackson's throat.
Meanwhile Zack James and Mitch' Jenkins had drawn stout cords as tightly as possible round the leg above and below the wound, with a view to check the circulation of poisoned blood. This done, large portions of the raw quivering flesh ofa turkey just killed were pressed hard, one after another, upon the wound itself, these supposedly acting as an absorbent.
One of the men suggested that the raw flesh of the rattler be applied in lieu of the turkey, mentioning a story he had heard to the effect that the best results could be thus obtained; but the poisoned man shuddered and refused to permit this.
He called pitifully for "a doctor," and the men about him only looked at each other helplessly, the nearest physician being many miles too far away to be sent for and brought through the swamp's difficulties in time to be of any service. There seemed to be nothing further to do but to continue to apply raw flesh to the wound.
By the time July announced supper, which nobody could eat, Jackson's leg was startlingly swollen and an hour or two later he had begun to wander in his mind.
Meanwhile, Hubert had related to Buck Hardy and several other listeners how he had one day been invited to visit the rattlesnake at its hole; how Billy had fed it, and seemed to be on the friendliest terms with it. Ted and July havingconfirmed Hubert's story, it became clear to everyone that Billy had brought the snake into the camp and was playing with it when the retreating Jackson stepped upon it. Nobody forgot that Jackson was of an ugly temper and had harshly used the half-witted boy whom he had brought into the swamp and who was said to be his cousin; but none the less was Billy now looked upon with suspicion and aversion, and by common consent he was shut up in the prison-pen that had been built for July. Rafe Wheeler gave expression to the general sentiment when he said:
"We don't want no sich walkin' free aroun' this camp. Fust thing we know he'll be tolin' up another rattlesnake to bite some of us."
As the poisoned man grew steadily worse and the inevitable issue had to be faced, Buck Hardy called Peters, Jones, Jenkins and James into consultation.
"He won't last through the night," said Buck in low tones, "and I reckon we'll have to bury him right h-yuh. He'd spoil before we could git him out. What do you say, men?"
All agreed that this was the only thing to be done, Zack James adding: "And 'sides that themthat undertook to tote him out would run a turrible risk of goin' to jail for dodgin' the draft."
"Another thing," said Buck: "there's that po' fool Billy. He ought to go to his people, and I know you all want to get rid o' him. What had we better do about that?"
"Rafe Wheeler is goin' out for salt in the mornin'," said Zack James. "Maybe we could git him to take him."
This suggestion was approved, Wheeler was approached; and, though he objected, saying that he was afraid to lie down in the woods with "a crazy snake-charmer," a collection of contributed quarters and dimes offered as a substantial reward, induced him to undertake the disagreeable task.
Shortly after midnight Sweet Jackson drew his last breath, after his physical anguish had been mercifully dulled by delirium. Then a hush fell on the camp. Ted and Hubert retired to the sleeping-loft, but all the men sat about the fire until break of day. Straightening the limbs and covering the face of the dead, they sat about a freshened fire, speaking little and thinking much. Young men who had scarcely reflected seriously in all their lives did so now. Some of them fearedthe blow that had fallen was a judgment not only upon Jackson but upon the slacker camp in general, and more than one troubled mind wrestled with the question as to whether to turn from a selfish and cowardly course and go where duty called.
Awakening rather late in the morning, Ted and Hubert heard the sound of carpenter's tools and, descending from the sleeping-loft, they saw two of the slackers engaged in the construction of a rough coffin. Later they learned that others were digging a grave several hundred yards out in the pine woods. As July was giving them their breakfast, they also heard with relief that Wheeler had "gone out," and that poor Billy had been persuaded to accompany him.
An hour later the body was placed in the coffin and four men bore it to the grave, where the whole camp assembled. When the boys reached the spot Buck Hardy softly called Ted to come to him where he stood in consultation with several of the slackers.
"We ain't got no preacher nor no Bible," he said to the boy, "and we've agreed that the least we can do is to stand round the grave and everyman say what he can remember of the prayers he used to say. We don't have to say 'em out loud if we don't want to."
There was a slight pause, and then Buck rather awkwardly added:
"Kid, I was thinkin' that, as you are the speaker in this camp, maybe you could remember some o' them pieces out o' the Bible they say at funerals, and——"
"Oh, Mr. Hardy, I'm afraid I can't," gasped Ted, appalled by the solemn responsibility thus placed upon him.
"You can do it, kid," urged Buck. "Don't be scared. Nobody will crack a smile, and we'll all think you're just great," As Ted still hesitated, Buck said further: "If you can remember any o' them Bible pieces, I think Sweet's folks would be glad if you said 'em."
"Well—I'll try—to remember some," said the shrinking boy, unable to resist this last appeal, "and—and—I'll do my best."
"Good for you," said Buck, putting an affectionate hand on Ted's shoulder.
Then he turned, gave the awaited signal, and all present formed a circle round the grave.Then, with bent and uncovered heads, practically every one repeated in whispers the whole of known or fragments of long-forgotten prayers.
As soon as the last man to do this looked up, thus signifying that he had finished, Buck stood a little forward with Ted, his hand on the boy's shoulder. Then Ted, in a voice at first low and trembling but gradually strengthening, his eyes fixed upon the coffin, repeated:
"Jesus said, I am the Resurrection and the Life. He that believeth in Me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.... Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord; they rest from their labors, and their works do follow them.... Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust...."
The boy hesitated and, turning to Buck whispered anxiously:
"I—I don't think I can remember any more."
"That'll do fine," whispered Buck, then announced aloud: "Now we'll bury him."
AFTER the slackers had spent the afternoon in heavy sleep and eaten a hearty supper, the atmosphere of gloom was partially lifted from the camp; but the thoughts of all were still busier than their tongues as they sat and smoked about the fire. Though conversation lagged, nobody was sleepy, and all lingered, lounging on the grass until Ted suddenly rose to his feet and asked if he might say a few words.
"I am only a boy," he said, "and a boy is not expected to talk to men, but there are a few things I wantso muchto say, and I hope you will let me."
"Go ahead, kid," said Buck Hardy.
Al Peters and Bud Jones added their permission, the others remaining silent. All stared at the boy, giving him close attention. Instead of shrinking before the steady gaze of so many eyes, he felt inspired thereby. It had been so ever since he was first given declamation exercises at school. Always he had found writing "a composition" a distasteful, unwelcome and heavy task, but as soon as he was given a chance to speak to attentive listeners his work became easy, his active mind became more fully awake, crowding thoughts clamored for expression, and, while he talked, the subject given to him developed far beyond any previous outline that he had made. And it was so now, his proposed few words becoming many and his promise to be very brief being soon forgotten.
"Of course, we are all thinking a lot about that poor man," he said, "and perhaps some of you have thought, as I have, how much better it would have been for him and his family if he had gone to the war and died gloriously for his country instead of coming to such an end in such a place as this at such a time. But I don't want to say much about Mr. Jackson. Ever since the days of old Rome, my uncle says, it has been agreed that we ought to say little about the dead unless we are ready to say something in praise.
"I speak of him because the way he died reminds me of what I read in that newspaper Mr. Jenkins brought in here when he came. I read in that paper of how a captain in our army wasn'ttrue to our side because his parents were Germans and he had relatives in Germany, and of how he was sentenced to twenty-five years of hard labor. That and lots of other things I've read show what we are up against in this country. My uncle says our Northern States are full of foreigners who came over here just to make money, and they and their children still love the countries they came from, the Germans especially, who, I've read, claim twenty millions in our country that are German by birth or descent."
"Gee-whiz!" cried Buck Hardy, quick to see the boy's point.
"Of course, most of these have been here long enough to become real Americans. My uncle thinks there is doubt about only the more recent immigrations. But even these are a great population, and the things that have happened prove that very many of them are working for the Kaiser with all their might. They spy for Germany and blow up and burn down munition plants. They do even more harm by their cunning whispers and continual talk. They get hold of ignorant people and try to persuade them that it costs too much in blood and money to fight Germany andthat, anyhow, the world would be better off under the Kaiser's rule. I read of one German, a professor in one of our colleges, who actually argued in print that the wisest thing to do is to submit and make peace on any terms. You see, they are not real Americans, and still love and admire Germany; they would really enjoy having the Kaiser walk on their necks, and they may think that to try to make this country one of the tails to the Kaiser's kite is just the thing they ought to do. Besides, they know that German rule would bring them forward and make them the aristocrats in this country."
The listeners to this boyish, but pointed and intensely earnest harangue were all of old American stock and at this point all of them, without exception, were visibly indignant.
"Don't you see what this brings us up against?" asked Ted. "And what we are up against reminds me of the way Mr. Jackson died. This great German element that is secretly for the Kaiser is our Snake in the Grass that watches and waits and will come out and strike openly if ever a German army lands on our shores. Meanwhile it tries to poison the minds of our peopleand it does all the damage it possibly can on the sly. You see what we have to fight right here at home and how, in a way, we have a harder pull and need more help than any of our Allies.
"Now this is my answer to the argument I have heard in this camp. Some of you have said that you are not needed because the country is so big and powerful and has so many men. Wearepowerful, but, you see, we have the secret foe at home as well as the open foe on the French border, and we need all our strength—all our able-bodied young men—so that we can go ahead in a big way andsmashthe hateful Huns. Our country needsyou, andyou, andyou," cried Ted, nodding his head toward Buck Hardy, and then toward every man around the camp fire in turn.
"Do you want to see a German viceroy taking orders from the Kaiser at Washington?" he demanded. "Do you want to see a German general in command of Atlanta and of every other State capital? Do you want to see a strutting German boss lording it over every town and county in this country? If you do, then you can say that you are not needed. Maybe you can't be stirred up by the President's call to make the world safe fordemocracy, because that may sound to you like something far away—though it isn't—But don't you—" cried the boy, tears starting in his eyes—"don't you want to see the American flag keep on flying? Don't you want to see your neighbors and all our people live in freedom and safety? Don't you want Americans still to rule in the country which our ancestors fought for and won and built up? Even little children have not been safe from the cruelty of the Germans. Do you want them protected? Do you want to keep our young women from being carried off into slavery? Do you want your mothers and sisters and sweethearts to belong to foreign beasts? Do you want to see in your own neighborhoods the dreadful things that have been seen in Belgium and France? The people in France have suffered so that when our first soldiers landed some of the French kissed the very hem of their garments. Do you want to wait untilwefeel like that toward any people who might come to help us to drive back the German hordes?
/* "'Breathes there a man with soul so dead Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land!' */
/* "'Breathes there a man with soul so dead Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land!' */
"Breatheshere, to-night, a man with soul so dead that he thinks of the safety of his own skin instead of the safety of his country, his people, his women, and who is not willing to stand up and fight for freedom, for security, for the right to live in peace, against powerful and wicked aggressors? Oh, God, I wishIwere old enough to go to the war and do my part!"
Then, overcome by his emotions, Ted threw himself down on the grass and sobbed aloud. Hubert, who was near, put an arm over his cousin and sobbed with him. July, who had crawled nearer on the grass while Ted was speaking and now lay flat on his stomach close at hand, reached out a hand and touched the boy's shoulder, whispering:
"Nem-mind, Cap'n Ted. You done yo' part to-night. You been doin' yo' part ever since you come to dis camp. Don't you cry, Cap'n Ted, honey."
"Did you ever see the like o' that boy?" asked Al Peters softly. "He sure made the cold chills run up and down my back."
The remark was made to Buck Hardy, whoselips were twitching nervously and who did not answer.
"Too bad heain'told enough," said Bud Jones. "He'd sure make a dandy cap'n in the army."
The other slackers stared into the fire in gloomy silence.
Suddenly Buck Hardy rose to his feet, clearing his throat as he too looked steadily into the fire.
"Well, fellows," he said, "I don't know how the rest o' you feel, but I'm ready to quit. I'm tired o' playin' the game of a sneakin' suck-egg dog and I want to try the game of bein' aman."
"Goin' to desert, air you?" asked Zack James in a harsh, unsteady voice.
"No—goin' toquit desertin'."
"Goin' to go back onus," insisted James, "jes' because aboyhas got lots o' lip and can talk to beat the band."
"No," said Buck, keeping his temper. "He sure is game and a great kid, and he stirred me up powerful; but I made up my mind before to-night. I made it up when I was by my sick mother's bed. I'm free to say that that boy's talk before that had a lot to do with it, but the truth is I ain't been satisfied from the start. I never did really belongto this crowd. I got in wrong last summer when I thought I knew better than the Congress of the United States about that draft business and was fool enough to get mad."
Zack James blew out his breath in a sort of contemptuous hiss.
"I meant to tell you all as soon as I come back yesterday," continued Buck, taking no notice of James, "but the trouble in camp stopped me. I only come back to get them boys, and to-morrow I'll start out with 'em. I'm goin' to take them boys home and then I'm goin' to the war."
"Oh, Mr. Hardy," cried Ted, who had been drying his eyes as he listened, and who now started up, "I'm gladder to hear that than to know that we are going home!"
Mitch' Jenkins now spoke for the first time.
"Maybe you are goin' to take them boys home," he said, "but you ain't goin' to the war. You are goin' to jail, and then you are goin' to be shot."
"What do you mean?" demanded Buck in startled tones, plainly disturbed.
Then Ted darted his hand into an inside pocket and brought out a battered newspaper clipping.
"That's what they are sayin' in my neighborhood," declared Jenkins. "And that's why, when I heard of you fellows on the quiet, I came in to join you. I'd let the time to register go by, and so I come in here a-kitin'."
"Mr. Jenkins," said Ted, boldly facing hostile eyes, his voice quite steady, "you heard a wild rumor of the sort the Germans in this country are spreading all the time. I have the real facts here, Mr. Hardy. I cut this out of that paper Mr. Jenkins himself brought in, thinking I might need it. It got wet when we crossed the 'prairie,' but you can read it. It is a part of Provost Marshal General Crowder's report on the first draft. It says that out of nearly ten million men not much over five thousand arrests were made for failure to register, that more than half of these, after registering, were released. "'The authorities,'" read the boy from his clipping, "'wisely assumed an attitude of leniency toward all those who after arrest exhibited a willingness to register and extended thelocus penitentiæas far as possible, believing that the purpose of the law was to secure a full registration rather than full jails.'"
Ted handed the clipping to Buck, who, afterlooking it over carefully, handed it to Al Peters, remarking:
"Another lie nailed. I don't mean that you did the lyin', Jenkins. I reckon it was the Germans."
The clipping passed from Peters to Jones and then to Jenkins, each holding it near the fire and reading in silence. Jenkins studied it carefully and then, without comment, passed it to James, who, after hardly a glance at the printed lines, tore up the clipping and threw it into the fire.
"What good will that do you?" asked Peters scornfully.
"Nothin' but newspaper lies to fool runaways like us out of their hidin' places," said James bitterly.
Ted, who regarded the clipping as of great value and considered it his property, turned with an outraged face to Buck, who chose to take no notice of an incident which appeared to him unimportant.
"Well, fellows," he said in conclusion, "I've put you on notice, and now all I've got to do is to get ready."
"So you've gone back on us," repeated James,his voice trembling with anger, "and you'll go out and put the sheriff on our trail?"
"I didn't say that. I don't expect to hunt up the sheriff. I'll be satisfied if he don't hunt me up. But if he asks me straight up and down, I don't engage to do any lyin'."
"You mean that after them boys has blabbed the whole thing, you won't deny it?" demanded James.
"I told you I wouldn't do any lyin'," said Buck sharply.
"Allright," said James menacingly. "That's all I want to know."
"How much more do you deserve?" asked Buck, his tone showing irritation for the first time. "Al Peters," he said suddenly, turning to the young man addressed, "I don't think you belong in this crowd, either. If there's any yellow dog in you, I ain't seen it. Don't you want to come along with me and join themen?"
"Buck," said Peters, rising and stepping forward, "I have a good mind to do it."
"Good for you! Now, Jones, let's hear from you. I ain't seen any yellow dog in you either.I think that down underneath you're aman. Don't you want to come along?"
"Buck, I think I will," said Bud Jones.
He spoke as lightly as if a fishing trip had been proposed. He even smiled as he rose and took his stand in the group of which the boys were now the center.
Zack James started up, staring and muttering, his manner suggestive of impotent rage. He drew Thatcher aside and whispered to him.
"How about you, Jenkins?" asked Buck, smiling. "You're new and I hardly know you, but from things I've heard it looks to me like you're pretty nearly all white."
"No, thank you," said Jenkins, with mocking courtesy. "I'm stayin'. It's risky—with the sheriff gettin' on to it in three days' time—but it ain't as risky as goin' to jail with the chance o' bein' shot."
"Then, that's all," said Buck. "No use to ask any o' the rest."
"July wants to go out with us," spoke up Ted.
"I sho do want to go wid Mr. Hardy an' Cap'n Ted," declared the grinning negro.
"All right, July. I brought you in and, if you want to go, I'll take you out."
The two groups were now quite distinct, first Carter and then Jenkins having joined James and Thatcher.
"So," said James, as if estimating the relative strength of contending forces, "there's three of you and the nigger and the boys, and there's four of us—five when Wheeler gets back."
"Yes, you'll get Wheeler—not a doubt of it," said Buck, as if greatly amused. "And you're welcome to him."
Then he turned his back on James, remarking to those about him: "Well, I think our crowd had better go to bed. We ought to start early in the mornin'."
To this there was general assent, the three men and the two boys moving at once toward the sleeping-loft, followed slowly by the negro.
"Good night," called out Buck, his tone quite friendly.
But no response came from the four slackers who, standing in their tracks, watched the departing "deserters" with hostile eyes.
As the three men and the boys were climbingthe ladder, July quietly disappeared. Stealing into the bushes bent double, he skirted the clearing, treading very softly. Five minutes later he lay in the brush within earshot of the four slackers who still stood in consultation.