"My God, I'm thirsty," said Higgins irrelevantly.
"I have been so for the last two hours," responded Payne.
"And you saw no water out there?"
"No."
"Then we'd better not eat any more of that venison. Meat makes a man thirsty. A hundred yards, you guess, between the islands. Well, I can dope out a rig to beat that game. There's branches and saplings enough here, and creepers, and vines for ropes."
"Snowshoes!" cried Roger, grasping the idea.
"The same principle. Only we won't wear 'em. We'll each make us a pair of mats about four feet square. Big enough to support us. I've crossed rotten ice on 'em lots of times. Stand on one and toss the other ahead of you, step ahead, reach back, pick up the one you left, and toss that ahead. That's easy. But I'm worrying about your not seeing fresh water, Payne. This will be slow, hard work. In the heat to-morrow we'll thirst like souls in purgatory. And we don't know how far that mud reaches or what we'll be up against when we get across."
"Nevertheless, I'm going to try to cross it in the morning."
"Of course. So am I. Now let's build a bright camp fire so I can see to do a bit of fancy Indian basket work."