When he looked at his watch he found that it was now just a quarter after ten; and doing some lightning calculating he believed they could be out of the morass, discounting any serious trouble, by another hour.
Then, supposing it took them forty-five minutes to get Mr. Anderson to the nearest farm house, even though they had to make a rude stretcher, and carry him, that brought the time to exactly noon.
Could they really do it, make the eighteen miles that still lay between themselves and the field at Beverly, where they were expected to show up some time that day, if they hoped to win the prize?
Some how the very possibility of being put upon his mettle gave Paul a thrill. He had no doubts concerning his own ability to finish the great hike within the specified space of time, before the sun had vanished behind the western horizon, but it was a grave question whether some of the other scouts could accomplish the task. There was Eben for instance, never a wonder when it came to running; and then fat Noodles would be apt to give out before two-thirds of those eighteen miles had been placed behind them.
But if there was a ghost of a chance Paul was determined to take advantage of it, and he believed that even the laggards would be keen to make the attempt, once he mentioned the subject to them.
And so they kept pushing steadily along, Mr. Anderson showing wonderful pluck, considering the pain he must be suffering all the while from his numerous bruises and cuts.