“Here we are!” called Dorothy, and with one end of the old moss-covered fence rail on her shoulder, and the other end upon Tavia’s, the two girls made their way to the brink of the bog hole.
It took but a few minutes to get the rail over the swamp-like pit, where a spring sluggishly bubbled.
“There,” called Dorothy, “now see if it will hold you, Amy.”
But there was no need to direct Amy. Her rescue was too welcome to wait for orders. Throwing her arms firmly over the rail she dragged herself out of the mud until she was sitting on the long piece of wood.
“Be careful,” called Tavia. “Hold tight, and we will all pull the rail over to this side.”
In spite of the peril the situation was almost comical, and the girls lost no opportunity of cheering and otherwise dispelling the fast settling gloam.
“We ought to carry you to the road this way,” suggested Nita Brant, “you are so soaking wet, and horribly muddy——”
“Thank you, but I am too anxious to walk. I doubt if I shall get the use of my ankles for a month,” replied Amy. “My! but that was awful! I was saying my prayers, I tell you.”
“But what shall we do now?” inquired Ned, who, on account of her injured arm, could not help in the rail ride.
“Go directly back to the train,” said Dorothy. “Listen! That was a train whistle! Oh, if it should start——”