“But, much as he’d hate to do it,” Thad observed, proudly, “Smithy would follow wherever his leader went. He’s learned the rules by which all true scouts are governed, and obedience is one of them. What is it, Allan?” he went on, as the other uttered an exclamation of dismay.
“Hold up, don’t go a step further!” called out the other.
“What’s the matter?” demanded Step Hen, getting his gun ready, and casting a glance up at the branches of the trees as though he half expected to see a sleek gray panther crouched in a fork, ready to pounce down upon them.
“Look at the dry mud splattered on the trunk of that tree;” continued Allan, pointing.
And after they had looked, the four scouts exchanged horrified glances.
“It’s a sink hole!” exclaimed Giraffe, turning pale.
“And poor old Bumpus was caught in the mud. He splashed around like a stranded porpoise, and that threw the stuff up on that tree trunk,” Step Hen went on to say.
“Oh! it can’t be as bad as that, can it, Thad?” asked Giraffe in a tremulous tone, as his eyes remained glued on the treacherous surface of the bog about the place where Bumpus had been caught and held as in a vise.
Was it possible their poor comrade could have sunk out of sight under that smooth deceptive surface? The thought was too terrible.
All at once Thad uttered a cry, and the others noticed that it seemed to have a little ring of joy about it, rather than gloom.