“You aren’t going to walk the slough, are you?” he whimpered, seeing that Tom and Ned were hobbling on, without swerving.
“Sure. Why not?” answered Ned. “We want to get home, and that’s the quickest way, isn’t it?”
“I’m afraid. The slough’s all full of air-holes!” faltered Hal, beginning to cry afresh from weariness and fear.
“We’ll go first, Hal,” comforted Ned. “You aren’t afraid to follow in our tracks, are you? See—Tom’s half way across already.”
For Tom had never paused, but had trudged ahead like a machine.
“N-no,” said Hal, trying to be brave, and not think of Bob’s howling.
It was dark. The slough was ghostly, and the farther shore was but a dim line. Here and there a light glimmered; northward were more lights, and Beaufort.
A couple of miles, and they would be home.
Over the slough stumped Ned; behind him trailed Hal, sobbing and moaning, but coming on, just the same. It was no use for them to pick their way. Air-hole and solid crust looked alike. And while the ice cracked under them, sending their hearts into their mouths, and the wind lashed them and the snow blinded them, they pushed forward and arrived in safety at the mainland. Tom was waiting for them, like a statue.