“Sometimes there is. I’ve seen a swamp with just a narrow path running through it. But a swamp path is the sneakiest kind of a trail. It hides itself wherever it can under tall grasses and bushes. Of course, Mr. Lupo didn’t know we were going, or he would certainly have stopped us, but do you suppose Mrs. Lupo understood we were taking this particular trail?”
“She certainly did. I told her myself just before I drew the knife on her.”
Ben smiled at the mental picture of Billie brandishing a carving knife.
“Hey, Ben,” called Percy. “Is this a trail? I think it’s a channel. I’m up to my knees.”
Ben made no reply. He was deeply mortified, and hung his head with a kind of animal-like humiliation.
“What’s the matter, old man?” demanded Percy, putting his arm affectionately on his friend’s shoulder. “You look like my collie did when I caught him sucking eggs.”
“I’ve missed the trail,” Ben burst out with a choke in his voice.
The others had gathered around now. Their shoes were wet, their stockings torn with brambles, and their skirts splattered and stained with grasses and the juices of wild berries. But they were a valiant little company, even Mary Price, the weakest and frailest among them, and the sight of Ben’s unhappiness and remorse only added to their courage.
“It’s all right, Ben,” said Elinor. “We’ll find the trail again. We’re obliged to. There is the mountain right over there. Why not walk until we get to it?”
“I’m afraid it looks nearer than it is,” said Ben, “and besides, it’s not Sunrise Mountain. It’s Indian Head. I thought some time ago we were getting well away from it, but these infernal bogs are so deceiving.”