"That's so," assented Jack, "unless we've been traveling round and round in circles."
"Pshaw! only babies and folks in books do that. I've kept my eyes on the sun and I'm pretty sure we've been keeping in one direction right along."
"That being the case, I move that we continue to do so."
"Very well. Lay on, MacDuff, arise and gird thy loins, and——"
Sandy, as he spoke, had given a step or two forward into some marshy-looking land that came almost up to the stump on which they had been resting.
All at once, before Jack's very eyes, the Scotch lad gave an amazed, choking exclamation, and without warning, was suddenly immersed to his waist in the center of a patch of unnaturally brilliant green grass.
"Help, Jack! Help!" he cried in a voice in which real terror vibrated.
"What is it? What's the matter?" queried Jack, anxiously springing forward. This was a new disaster, and a very real one.
"It's—it's a quicksand or something!" gasped Sandy, "it's pulling me down! Help! I——"
As he spoke he struggled desperately in the grip of the quagmire that had fastened a remorseless hold on his nether limbs. But every struggle took him lower. The slimy, treacherous black mud reached his waist, then it gradually engulfed him till it was up to his chest.