“We have put our foot into it, and no mistake,” rejoined Alano dubiously.
“Say feet, Alano,—and legs,—and you’ll be nearer it. What on earth is to be done?”
“I don’t know. See, I am up to my thighs already. In an hour or so I’ll be up to my neck.”
To this I made no reply. I had drawn my pistol, and with the crook of the handle was endeavoring to hook a thick sugar-cane stalk within my reach. Several times I had the stalk bent over, but it slipped just as I was on the point of grasping it.
But I persevered,—there was nothing else to try,—and at last my eager fingers encircled the stalk. I put my pistol away and pulled hard, and was overjoyed to find that I was drawing myself up out of my unpleasant position.
“Be careful—or the stalk will break,” cautioned my Cuban chum, when crack! it did split, but not before I was able to make a quick leap on top of the clump of roots. Here I sank again, but not nearly as deeply as before.
The leap I had taken had brought me closer to Alano, and now I was enabled to break down a number of stalks within his reach. He got a firm hold and pulled with all of his might, and a moment later stood beside me.
“Oh, but I’m glad we’re out of that!” were his first words. “I thought I was planted for the rest of my life.”
“We must get out of the field. See, it will be pitch dark in another quarter of an hour.”