The effort was painful in the extreme; but the apprehension from which he suffered was still more painful, and urged him to continue it.
He well knew there was a chance of his falling a victim to thirst—almost a certainty, if he did not succeed in finding water.
Stimulated by this knowledge he crept on.
At short intervals he was compelled to pause, and recruit his strength by a little rest. A man does not travel far, on his hands and knees, without feeling fatigued. Much more, when one of the four members cannot be employed in the effort.
His progress was slow and irksome. Besides, it was being made under the most discouraging circumstances. He might not be going in the right direction? Nothing but the dread of death could have induced him to keep on.
He had made about a quarter of a mile from the point of starting, when it occurred to him that a better plan of locomotion might be adopted—one that would, at all events, vary the monotony of his march.
“Perhaps,” said he, “I might manage to hobble a bit, if I only had a crutch? Ho! my knife is still here. Thank fortune for that! And there’s a sapling of the right size—a bit of blackjack. It will do.”
Drawing the knife—a “bowie”—from his belt, he cut down the dwarf-oak; and soon reduced it to a rude kind of crutch; a fork in the tree serving for the head.
Then rising erect, and fitting the fork into his armpit, he proceeded with his exploration.
He knew the necessity of keeping to one course; and, as he had chosen the south-east, he continued in this direction.