“What gug-good will that do?” he whispered back. “It won’t help fuf-find Hooker.”
“No, but it may help us after he’s found.”
“I don’t think so; it’s tut-too late.”
“Why too late?” persisted Chipper.
“Because everybub-bub-body would know we were just scared into it, that’s all. It wouldn’t help us a bit, Chip—not a bit, to tell it now. If Piper thought it would do any good you bub-bet your life he’d have told already.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” sighed Cooper; “but it’s an awful load on my conscience, and I’d like to get it off my system.”
“Come on,” Piper called back in a low tone. “We’re all right. This is the way.”
They went forward again, turning presently to the left and descending to the lower ground at the border of the broad marsh. The trees became more scattering and the thickets grew thinner. Before long they saw the marsh, spreading out before them, silent and strange and uninviting in the moonlight which flooded its expanse of pools and reeds and brushwood, amid which a few scraggy dead trees rose here and there. In the midst of the expanse was a bit of higher ground, covered by a growth of small, dark, evergreen trees. This was the “island” on which stood the old camp where Piper hoped to find Roy Hooker. From knoll to knoll, in a zigzag course, led the path, the pools and marshy places bridged by felled trees and brushwood.
“I’m afraid you won’t find him there, Piper,” said Nelson.
Cooper, hearing the words, muttered for Springer’s ear: