But to get out of the soft spot was not easy, and soon they found themselves between the tall cane and up to their knees in a muck that seemed to stick worse than glue.
“Sure, an’ this is fightin’ wid a vengeance,” said the Irish volunteer, smiling grimly. “It’s sthuck we are like flies on a fly paper, eh, Captain Russell?”
“We’ve got to get out somehow, Casey,” answered Ben, half desperately. “Our command is marching farther and farther away, and we’ll have all we can do to get up to them.”
“Sure thin, an’ Major Morris betther send a detail back wid a long rope to pull us out. We couldn’t fly from the inimy now if we thried, could we?”
“This is no joke, Casey.”
“Joke, bedad? No, captain, I’m afther thinkin’ 130 it’s a mighty sarious difficulty. But there’s no use av cryin’, no matther how bad it is,” finished the Irish soldier, philosophically.
A moment of reflection convinced Ben that the best thing he could do was to go back part of the distance they had come, and make an endeavor to cross the little stream at another point.
They retreated with difficulty, first one sinking into some treacherous hole and then the other. Once Casey went flat on his back, and gave a loud yell of dismay when he found himself covered with a mud that was more like a paste than anything else.
“Sure, an’ I’ll not go in such a cane-field again, bedad,” he muttered, as he started to pick up the gun he had dropped. As he did so a cracking of cane-stalks near them caused both to straighten up in alarm.
“Who comes?” cried Ben, and drew the pistol he had shoved into his belt.