“He’s got a branch, and is trying to help one of his mates,” asserted Rob. “But he doesn’t seem to be making much headway.”
“They’re in a peck of trouble, believe me!” admitted George, for once neglecting to sneer at the prospect of a fatality.
Carl was trying to make out who the three in the bog were.
“Can you see if he’s in there, Tom?” he asked, eagerly.
“Yes, it’s Wedge McGuffey up in the tree, and the others must be Tony, Asa and Dock,” the patrol leader assured him; nor did he blame poor Carl for sighing as though in relief, for he could easily guess what it meant to him, this golden opportunity to be of help to the stubborn boy who could lift the load from his heart, if only he chose.
When they came closer to the struggling captives in the lake of mud they heard them actually sobbing for joy. Hope must have been almost gone when first they heard that chorus of cheering shouts. And when the scouts saw what a desperate condition the three prisoners were in they could not blame them for showing such emotion in the excess of their joy.
Soon the newcomers were as close as they could come to the three who were stuck there in the mire. Never would they forget their deplorable appearance. They had evidently floundered about until they were fairly plastered over with the mud, and looked like imps.
“Can’t you get us out of here, fellers?” called Tony Pollock, in a voice that seemed almost cracked, such was his excitement, and his fears that these scouts, whom he had done his best to injure, might think to pay him back in his own coin and abandon him to his fate.
“Yes, we’ll manage it some way or other,” said the hermit-naturalist. “Keep as still as you can, because every movement only sends you down deeper.”
Then he turned to Tom, for he knew the patrol leader was the one to take charge of the rescue party.