At last, valor overcoming discretion, he plunged ahead, and gobbled as fast as he could, while his companions jeered.
The supper having been cleared away—and save rinsing the utensils there was no “clearing” to be done, after two hungry boys and a dog had scraped and licked—a frog hunt was inaugurated. Protected now by shoes and stockings, the boys, taking the willing Bob, proceeded to Ned’s swamp.
The sun was setting, a ball of dull red in the golden west, and as the three chums traversed the short patch lying between the dried marsh and their arbor upon the bank of the slough, already the wild-wood was growing dusky and subdued. Birds were darting to their homes, and were twittering their good-nights. A whippoorwill began to pipe in the island across the bayou. Mosquitoes rose from the under side of leaves, and here and there moths flitted aimlessly. The mooing of cows, as they were driven to the milking-place, floated in from distant pastures.
“Here we are,” announced Ned, pausing on the edge of a narrow open strip.
“Listen! What’s that funny noise?” exclaimed Hal, stopping stock still. Bob who had been soberly following at the boys’ heels, also stopped.
On the quiet atmosphere, almost from beneath their feet, rose a series of shrill little squeaks—somehow the oddest sounds that the trio ever had heard.
“Isn’t that funny!” whispered Ned. “What is it, do you think?”
Hal didn’t know. Bob didn’t know.
Carefully they peered about, through the vicinity, and found out.
“Oh, Ned—it’s a frog!” on a sudden called Hal. “Come quick, and see! Two garter snakes have got hold of him!”