“This is the one—I’ve had my eye on it ever since we’ve been working this end of the lagoon. There’s a cleft in the trunk, about thirty feet up that will hold us nicely.”
“Mmm—after we get there!” was Bill’s unenthusiastic reply.
“Oh, that’s not so difficult. There are plenty of vines.”
Bill followed Osceola a few steps round the trunk, then felt his hand touch a thick stem that clung to the bark of the tree.
“Follow that straight up,” directed the Seminole. “I’ll go ahead, for I can see.”
“I wish I could,” said Bill. “I’m as blind as a bat in this darkness!”
“You’ll get accustomed to it,” Osceola assured him. Then Bill’s hand was released from the Indian’s grasp and he heard the other moving upward. “Follow me,” he went on, when he was just above Bill’s head, “and if you get into trouble, grab my foot until you can find a toehold.”
The thick stem of the vine proved a comparatively easy means of ascent, and especially so to an Annapolis midshipman. Up he went, hand over hand, his rubber-soled shoes gripping the bark’s rough surface.
“Here we are,” said Osceola’s soft voice presently, “give me a hand—that’s right. Now step in here and squat down. Not so bad, eh?”
“Could be a lot worse,” agreed Bill, finding a seat next to his friend in the wide cleft. “If those guys can’t see any better than I can in this murk, they’ll have a time locating our hideout.”