“We might take possession,” Alano suggested.
But to this proposition I shook my head. “We might be caught and shot as intruders. Come on. Perhaps the house of the owner is further on.”
Stopping for a drink at an old-fashioned well, we went on through the sugar cane until we reached a small stream, beyond which was a boggy spot several acres in extent.
“We’ll have to go around, Alano,” I said. “Which way will be best?”
“The ground appears to rise to our left,” he answered. “We’ll try in that direction.”
Pushing directly through the cane, I soon discovered, was no mean work. It was often well-nigh impossible to break aside the stout stalks, and the stubble underfoot was more than trying to the feet. We went on a distance of a hundred yards, and then on again to the stream, only to find the same bog beyond.
“We’ll have to go further yet,” said Alano. “Come, Mark, ere the sun gets too low.”
“Just a few minutes of rest,” I pleaded, and pulled down the top of a cane. The sweet juice was exceedingly refreshing, but it soon caused a tremendous thirst, which I gladly slaked at the not over clear stream. Another jog of quarter of an hour, and we managed to cross at a point which looked like solid ground.
“How far do you suppose this field extends?” I asked.
“I have no idea; perhaps but a short distance, and then again it may be a mile or more. Some of the plantations out here are very large.”