“It’s just like being in a big conservatory at home,” said Jack, and indeed the air had just the odor and closeness of a glass-house.
“This is fever territory,” declared Mr. Jukes, administering a large dose of quinine to himself. “There is to be no sleeping on the ground, remember.”
“I guess not, after the experience we had in our room at the hotel last night,” said Raynor, and amidst much laughter he narrated the details of their uncomfortable night.
As they pushed onward, there came from the river, which glinted like molten lead in the sunshine at their left, a long-drawn cry which startled all the white members of the expedition. It resembled the human voice and appeared to be the appeal of someone in agony.
“Shure there’s some poor soul in throuble over yonder forninst the river,” declared Muldoon, and before any one could stop him he had left the trail and was making for the water.
“Hi you white man, you comee back,” cried Salloo.
But he was too late. Hardly had Muldoon left the trail than he sank up to his knees in black, oozy mud which held him like liquid glue.
His struggles only made matters worse, and soon he was up to his knees in the evil-smelling, glutinous mass which bubbled about him as it sucked him down.
“Help! Murther! Shure, O’im kilt intirely!” cried the frightened man, waving his arms frantically.