Bert Wilson at Panama

by J. W. Duffield

"How far have you got to go?" inquired the latter, and when they told him he groaned.

"You'll never get back in time," he said, "but I guess it's the only thing left to do. Only, one of you please stay here with me. If I've got to die, I'd rather not die alone."

"Oh, quit that talk about dying," exclaimed Bert, although in his heart he had little hope. But the three comrades were resolved to employ every means, however desperate, for the stranger's release.

They held a brief consultation.

"You and Tom had better go, Dick," said Bert. "I'll stay here and do all I can to keep this poor fellow alive, but it's a long trip and I'm afraid there's not much chance for him."

So Tom and Dick set off at a brisk trot, and Bert began to talk with the unfortunate man with the idea of getting his mind as much as possible off his predicament. It developed that he was an engineer connected with the Canal, who had gone for a day's hunting in the jungle. He had lost his way, and had been forced to make camp over night. Early the next morning he had set out, and when he had reached the swamp had attempted to cross it by way of a path that a native guide had pointed out to him as being a short cut, on a previous trip. He had taken two or three steps off the path before he realized it, and then, when he had attempted to return, had found himself held fast in the treacherous mire. All his efforts to escape had only resulted in his sinking deeper and deeper, and finally he had ceased struggling. Then he began to shout at intervals, in the faint hope of someone being within earshot, and, as we have seen, brought the three boys to his aid.

While the man had been talking, Bert's mind had been busy with a hundred plans for helping him, which, however, he was forced to abandon one after the other. It wrung his heart to see the poor wretch slowly sinking in the filthy mud, and to feel his own absolute inability to help him. By this time, the stranger was in the mire up to his chin, the underbrush which the boys had cut for him having gradually been pulled under.

Almost imperceptibly, but none the less surely, he sank, and Bert tore his hair and paced wildly up and down the bank, wrung by pity for the doomed man. At last the latter smiled weakly, and said, "Well, good-bye, my boy. You and your pals did your best, but I'm done for now. Hartley's my name, and tell the boys back at the camp that I died game, anyway. Tell them——"

But at this point Bert dashed madly away, pulling his sharp hunting knife from its sheath as he ran. He plunged into a thick clump of reeds on the edge of the swamp, and hastily cut an unusually long and tough one. He put it to his lips and blew through it, assuring himself that it was hollow. Then he rushed madly back to the place where the engineer was immersed. Nor was he a minute too soon.

The man had sunk until the mud was at his very lips, and in another few moments it would inevitably close over his mouth and nostrils. Bert dashed out on the quaking path, careless of his own danger, and in a few words explained his plan to the engineer. The latter's eyes lighted up with hope, and expressed the thanks he had no time to utter.