"What shall I do now?"
Dick asked himself the question several times. Here he was up to the knees in the bog and unable to stir either foot an inch forward or backward.
In vain he caught at the moss around him. It came up in his hands, revealing only more muck, black, slippery and pasty.
"If I stay here much longer I'll be planted for good," he groaned. "Oh, I must get out somehow!"
He struggled again and pulled with might and main upon one foot. But as that member came up, the other went down just so much deeper, and in new alarm he set down both feet again, to find himself now almost up to his waist.
His struggles had disturbed several swamp crabs—dirty and ugly looking creatures, peculiar to Porto Rico and other West India Islands. They crawled all around him, hissing viciously and glaring at him with their hard, beady eyes. When he shouted at them, however, they scuttled off as fast as their long legs permitted.
The time that followed was an age to Dick, who could not think of a thing to do. But he did think of something else—snakes—and wondered if any were at hand.
"If they come this way I'll be a goner!" he shuddered. Then he raised his voice and called out, not once, but again and again, until his throat grew husky from his exertions.
At last he heard an answering shout and his heart gave a bound of joy. But then it sank almost as much as before, as he saw Joseph Farvel approaching, accompanied by one of his black guides.
"Who calls?" cried Farvel, and then caught sight of him. "You!"