The breeze wafted it within reach of a stick, and he seized it and returned in triumph to Pete, but found [518] him ready to cry. "I want to go home!" he said miserably. The sight of the Mallard cheered him a little, and Yan said: "Come now, Pete, don't spoil everything, there's a good fellow. Brace up, and if I don't show you the Pine woods in twenty minutes I'll turn and take you home."
As soon as they got to the next island they saw the Pine wood—a solid green bank not half a mile away, and the boys gave a little cheer, and felt, no doubt, as Mungo Park did when first he sighted the Niger. In fifteen minutes they were walking in its dry and delightful aisles.
"Now we've won," said Yan, "whatever the others do, and all that remains is to get back."
"I'm awfully tired," said Pete; "let's rest awhile."
Yan looked at his watch. "It's four o'clock. I think we'd better camp for the night."
"Oh, no; I want to go home. It looks like rain."
It certainly did, but Yan replied, "Well, let's eat first." He delayed as much as possible so as to compel the making of a camp, and the rain came unexpectedly, before he even had a fire. Yet to his own delight and Peter's astonishment he quickly made a rubbing-stick fire, and they hung up their wet clothes about it. Then he dug an Indian well and took lots of time in the preparation, so it was six o'clock before they began to eat, and seven when finished—evidently too late to move out even though the rain seemed to be over. So Yan collected firewood, made a bed of Fir boughs and a windbreak of bushes and bark. The [519] weather was warm, and with the fire and two blankets they passed a comfortable night. They heard their old friend the Horned Owl, a Fox barked his querulous "Yap-yurr!" close at hand, and once or twice they were awakened by rustling footsteps in the leaves, but slept fairly well.
At dawn Yan was up. He made a fire and heated some water for tea. They had very little bread left, but the Mallard was untouched.
Yan cleaned it, rolled it in wet clay, hid it in the ashes and covered it with glowing coals. This is an Indian method of cooking, but Yan had not fully mastered it. In half an hour he opened his clay pie and found the Duck burned on one side and very raw on the other. Part of it was good, however, so he called his companion to breakfast. Pete sat up white-faced and miserable, evidently a sick boy. Not only had he caught cold, but he was upset by the swamp water he had taken. He was paying the penalty of his indiscretion. He ate a little and drank some tea, then felt better, but clearly was unable to travel that day. Now for the first time Yan felt a qualm of fear. Separated by a dozen miles of swamp from all help, what could he do with a sick boy? He barked a small dead tree with a knife, then on the smooth surface wrote with a pencil, "Yan Yeoman and Pete Boyle camped here August 10, 18—"