“This way,” said Swickey. “It will be all right when you get used to it. I don’t believe it ever gets much darker or lighter in here.”
Bascomb stumbled along, doing his best to keep up with David’s pace, that seemed unnecessarily fast, but was in reality much slower than usual. As they came to a gully which they had crossed on a fallen tree when they came in, Swickey took Bascomb’s hand, and, walking sideways, led him across carefully.
“It’s muskeg down there, so be careful.”
“Sure. I wish this log was a mile long. I like muskegs, don’t you?”
“No, I don’t,” said Swickey, releasing his hand as they came to securer footing.
“Of course it’s a matter of taste, Miss Avery. When blindness is bliss, ’tis folly to wear glasses, you know.”
“Perhaps it won’t be bliss all the way,” she replied. “There’s another stretch of swamp—you remember that place just after we left the old trail?—and it’s black mud, and deep each side of the hummocks.”
“Yes, I know—that you’re absolutely bewitching—although I can’t see as much of you as I should like to in this—wait a minute till I crawl under this log—neck of the woods.”
“We won’t be able to keep up if you stop to say such things,” replied Swickey.
“I’m really in no hurry, even if I seem to be. I’m only trying to keep up with you. There! Hang it! I wish the chap that put that rock there had a little more sense of proportion. It’s altogether too big a chunk to be lying around loose on the avenue. Hey, Davy, are you there?”