But I didn’t have time to wish anything like that because an even worse worry startled me into some very fast action, for I remembered that the path on the other side of the north road, if you followed it far enough, not only led to the old swamp but went on through it—that being the path the gang always takes to go to Old Man Paddler’s cabin in the hills—and about twenty feet to the left of the path, as it goes through the swamp, is some quicksand. Maybe you remember the dark night when Little Tom Till’s drunkard pop got lost in the swamp and sank down into the mire all the way up to his chin an when our flashlights found him out there, all we could see was his scared face and head and it looked like a man’s head lying in the swamp.
“We’ve really got to hurry now,” I said to Mr. Everhard and told him why. “They probably got to the swamp before the storm struck, but it’s so dark down there in that part of the woods they couldn’t see the path and maybe they will get out into the swamp and—quick!” I exclaimed, interrupting myself, “Let’s go!”
I didn’t wait for him to decide to follow me, but swung around, flung open the flopping tent flap and the two of us stormed out into the storm.
To get to the swamp at the quickest possible moment was the first and most important thing in the world.
We stumbled our excited, rain-blinded way toward the Sugar Creek bridge where our path crossed the north road. I led the way myself, being careful to keep out in the open so we wouldn’t run the risk of getting struck by falling trees or branches—also staying away from the tallest trees and especially the tall oak trees, which are the kind of trees lightning strikes more than any other kind.
I won’t even take time to tell you about that wild, worried race. All the way though, I was hoping that we would get there in time to save Charlotte Ann and Mrs. Everhard from getting out into the swamp itself. I was also remembering something Pop had taught me—and was also trying to teach Mom—and it was, “It’s better for your mind to hope something bad won’t happen than it is to worry about how terrible it would be if it did”—something like that—so I kept one part of my mind saying to the other part, “Why don’t you quit worrying and hope everything will be all right like I do.”
And do you know what? That crazy part of my mind just kept right on worrying anyway.
Over the north-road fence, across the road, up the incline, around the end post of another fence and along the creek we ran. I didn’t even notice the different kinds of bushes and wild flowers that bordered the path like I generally do, such as the purple vervain and skullcap and the red-flowered bee comb, which honeybees and butterflies and especially humming birds like so well—red being the favorite color of all the humming-birds that live around Sugar Creek.
I wouldn’t have even noticed the tall mullein stalks with their pretty, little, yellow, five-petaled flowers that grew along the path, if I hadn’t run kerplop into one and fallen head over heels, getting my right big toe hurt at the same time.
I was trying to keep my eyes peeled for a little water-colored sunsuit, which would be sop-soaking wet, and I suppose Mr. Everhard was looking for some color or other of a dress or a pair of slacks his wife might be wearing.