After a hasty supper everything about the camp was put in order and with their revolvers freshly oiled and plenty of ammunition in their pockets the adventurers descended by the mound-builders’ path to where they had moored the canvas boat. Quatty accompanied them. He put on a great assumption of bravery but inwardly he was quaking till his teeth chattered. Still he decided in his own mind he would rather a thousand times accompany the boys—however dangerous their errand—than spend the night alone in a spot which he firmly believed was haunted by the ghosts of the ancient tribesmen who had erected it.
The last thing Frank did before leaving was to call up Camp Walrus on the wireless. He bade his young friends and companions there a hearty “good-bye” and received their aerial “good-luck.”
As the night noises of the jungle began to arise, and the evening chill of the ’glades crept over the lower levels like a cold pall, the boys shoved off and under Quatty’s guidance began to pole toward the southeast.
CHAPTER XX.
CAPTAIN BELLMAN’S ISLAND.
Silently, as some craft propelled by spirits, they glided along between the high walls of saw-grass that grew up on each side of the stream they were navigating. Quatty stood in the stern manipulating the pole with the skill of a very Seminole, and sending the light craft through the water at a surprising rate of speed. His elevated position gave him a chance to peer over the tops of the lower clumps of saw-grass and judge—by their glitter under the starlight—which leads were the best to follow.
It was pitchy dark, with the exception of the dim starlight, and to the boys it seemed that they were passing through an endless tunnel. They threaded in and out of creeks till it seemed that they must be progressing in a circle. But Quatty, whatever his other faults might be, knew the Everglades as a city dweller knows his own streets, and by the darker landmarks of various hammocks and islets he steered the craft as unerringly as a cab-driver who wishes to drive in a certain direction.
Occasionally as they brushed against a sunken log, or shoal of rank-smelling mud, there would be a heavy flop in the water or a rustling sound in the dry grass.
“Whatever is that, Quatty?” asked Harry after the sound had been several times repeated.
“Moccasins. Dey bite you, you die plenty quick,” responded Quatty.
Harry, who had been trailing his hand in the water, quickly drew it in, not without a shudder. He had seen cotton-mouth moccasins before and had a lively recollection of the fat, dirty colored reptiles and their deadly fangs.