Though a native of the Southern clime, Lucky has suffered the most.
He is worn down to a mere shadow, and had it not been for the professor’s store of medicines he would certainly have found a grave in the swamp.
As it is, he has just about pulled through by the “skin of his teeth,” as the saying goes.
Leo Malvern has just shot a swamp deer, and they are busily engaged in preparing some of the meat for their breakfast.
“Well, professor,” said the young fellow, looking up from his task, “I can’t say that we have made any great discovery yet, and I guess we are pretty near the heart of the Everglades.”
“I haven’t given up yet,” was the reply. “Here, examine this and tell me what you think of it.”
He produced a block of stone about two or three inches square from his pocket as he spoke.
Leo laid down the knife with which he was skinning the animal he had slain, and took the object in question in his hand.
“I found that lying upon the ground a few minutes ago,” went on the professor. “Have any of you lost it?”
He was promptly answered in the negative by all hands.