"In middle of grass—see!"
Alf looked, but all that he saw was a head and shoulders that apparently rested on the grass without any lower limbs. The poor lad was indeed in the depth of extremity, and he was almost faint with exhaustion.
"Bob!" cried Holden in an agony of distress, and darted for the clearing.
But he had barely crossed a couple of yards before a pair of strong hands gripped him and kept him from moving.
"No! No! You dare not—" said Mackintosh; but the lad struggled frantically to free himself from the powerful grip.
"Let me go! Let me go! Can't you see that Bob is lying hurt?" he cried frantically.
But the hands did not relax their grasp.
"Wait, laddie," said the man's kindly voice. "Wait, or we'll be having two lives to account for. Yon's a muskeg—a living bog. It's death to them that sets a careless foot on yon green grass."
Instantly Alf's struggles ceased, and for the moment he was limp in the arms that supported him. The horror of learning of his friend's plight struck him dumb and suspended the power to move.
"Come, come, laddie. You mustn't give in. Your friend's life depends on your strength."