“Now walk slowly out there on to solid ground,” Murphy advised him. “Don’t try to hurry or you may fall again. It will be sort of hard to lift your feet, but they will come.”
It was needless to advise Scott not to hurry. He could not have hurried if his life had depended on it. Laboriously he worked his way over the few feet of quicksand to the hard ground of the stream-bed. Each step was a struggle. The feeling of the firm earth under his feet instead of that sickening ooze was such a relief that it was all he could do to keep from sitting down in the water right where he was.
With the feeling of security, a hazy thought which had been puzzling him vaguely throughout the struggle took definite form. “What are you standing on, Murphy?” he called back over his shoulder. It had been worrying him to know how Murphy could stand beside him in that sink hole and lift him up.
“I don’t know what it is,” Murphy answered cheerfully, “but I guess it must be the soles of some Chinaman’s feet,” he muttered to himself, “from the depth I’ve gone down here.”
Murphy had stood manfully to his job of freeing Scott, neglecting to move his own feet for fear he might shake Scott’s confidence once more and he had settled to a dangerous depth in the sullen sand. His legs were buried to his knees and he could feel himself sinking steadily deeper. Now Scott was free he devoted his best strength to extricating himself. He pulled desperately but did not seem to make any progress. What he gained on one foot he seemed to lose on the other. He did not want to call Scott back unless his case was hopeless.
Scott, who had reached dry land and thrown himself limply on the beach, looked back and saw him struggling back there in the moonlight. “What is the matter, Murphy?” he called in alarm. “Are you fast now?”
“No,” Murphy lied courageously, “I dropped my gun and I can’t seem to find it.”
Murphy was gaining a little on the quicksand now. Every time he changed feet he could feel the other one rise a trifle, but it was killing work and he wondered whether his strength would hold out long enough for him to free himself. Two or three times he felt as though he would have to give it up; he was even losing interest in the struggle and did not seem to care anything more about it. He knew he was fast approaching the limit of his strength, but he struggled on as in a dream. He no longer knew what he was doing, and he never knew till Scott told him afterwards how he had staggered wearily across the creek and collapsed on the dry beach.
“Did you find your gun?” Scott asked sleepily, but there was no response. Completely exhausted, they both slept soundly on the open beach.