Garry tried to engage the men in conversation, but all attempts failed. The rest and the dinner occupied about an hour and then the march began again.
“See here,” said Garry to the man addressed as King. “When are you going to give us a decent rest? We’re played out.”
“Well, you can be played out ef you want; you’ve got eight miles ahead of you yet till we get to Misery Camp,” answered King.
“What is Misery Camp, and who are you fellows anyway?” again asked Garry.
“Misery Camp is where we live, and we fellows be squatters. Now shut up and walk,” and King relapsed into silence.
Light instantly broke over the boys. They had often heard of the squatters scattered over the woods of Maine, queer nomadic people, who gleaned a precarious and lean living from the woods. Game and fish laws meant nothing to them. Birds of all sorts were shot, and woe be unto the deer that ran across the path of the squatter. Some little cultivation was carried on, in the way of corn and potatoes.
Wearily they trudged on. The last mile was almost agony to Phil and Garry, but they clenched their teeth and carried on, determined if possible to show no sign of weakening in front of these strange creatures of the woods.
At last Misery Camp was sighted. It was a patch of land that had been cleared away, evidently the logs that were cut being used to make the habitations of the squatters. A score of ragged children and some slatternly women came out to meet them, looking curiously at the boys. They were thrust into one of the cabins, and a guard established at the door.
The weary boys dropped on the rude pallets and fell asleep almost instantly. So tired were they that it was the following morning before they awoke. They stretched their arms and legs, and then tried to open the door. The guard let them out, and warned them that any attempt at flight would be followed immediately by a shot.
“An’ I ain’t missed a squirrel in five year,” boasted their guard, who was a boy of about their own age.