“O Mark, we must get it back somehow!” ejaculated Frank, aghast. “If we don’t, how will we ever get back to camp?”
“Of course we must get it back. But how to do it I don’t know. Come, let us run down the stream a bit and try to head them off.”
Frank was willing enough to do anything which might give them back the canoe and away they started, as close to the bank of the stream as the jungle permitted.
But the way was dark and uncertain, for the sun was now hanging over the forest to the westward, and they had not gone far when Frank went into a boggy hole up to his knees. As he sank his gun went off, the charge luckily passing upward through the tree branches.
“What’s up?” called Mark, who had gone ahead by a somewhat different route.
“I’m in a hole! Help me out!”
“I will!”
Mark was soon at his chum’s side and Frank was helped from the hole without much difficulty. But his going down had disturbed a number of ugly looking spiders and one of these bit him on the hand before he could brush the creature away.
“Ough!” cried the boy, for the pain was intense.
“Did it bite you?”