Soon the channel was no more than a path through high water-grass and floating hyacinths. Hod propelled his boat with powerful muscles, alternating with forked pole and paddle. At times, when Penny took over to give the Widow Jones a “breather,” she was hard pressed not to lose the trail.
“We’re headin’ straight fer Black Island, hit ’pears to me,” Mrs. Jones whispered once. “The channel don’t look the same though as when I was through here last. But I reckon if we git lost we kin find our way out somehow.”
Soon the skiff was inching through a labyrinth of floating hyacinths; there were few stretches of open water. Shallow channels to confuse the unwary, radiated out in a dozen directions, many of them with no outlets.
Always, however, before the hyacinths closed in, the Widow Jones was able to pick up the path through which Hod had passed.
“From the way he’s racin’ along, he’s been this way plenty o’ times,” she remarked. “We’re headin’ fer Black Island right enough.”
The sun now was high overhead, beating down on Penny’s back and shoulders with uncomfortable warmth. Mrs. Jones brought out the lunch and a jug of water. One ate while the other rowed.
“We’re most to Black Island,” the widow informed presently. “If ye look sharp through the grass, ye can see thet point o’ high land. Thet’s the beginnin’ o’ the island—biggest one in the swamp.”
“But where is Hod?”
“He musta pulled up somewheres in the bushes. We’ll have to be keerful and go slow now or we’ll be caught.”
“Listen!” whispered Penny.