The afternoon was waning when they noticed that the trees were beginning to thin out ahead. The underbrush was much less dense and therefore they were able to walk faster despite the fact that the ground was even more miry than any they had yet encountered.
Skippy was beginning to feel a little hope. Were they not almost out of the woods when the trees thinned out like this? He had almost convinced himself that they were, when he saw just before him several large footsteps in the slimy ground.
His finger trembled as he pointed to them. “Look, Nickie!”
Nickie nodded his head slowly and whispered, “Devlin’s!”
They were standing there trying to decide whether to run or not when they saw, still a little farther on, a dark object lying on the ground. There was something so significant about its size and shape that a mutual horror of it impelled them on, despite themselves.
Frost was lying face downward in the mud.
Skippy bit at his under lip to keep from shouting. Nickie had grasped his arm and was shaking like an aspen leaf. Suddenly, they heard a sound from behind a tree not ten feet distant.
Devlin stepped out before they could move. He was grave, unsmiling as ever and his eyes glittered coldly. “Too bad, isn’t it,” he said enigmatically.
Skippy could only gasp; Nickie could only shake.
“It’s dangerous to run off in this bog,” Devlin boomed in his funereal voice. “A person can meet almost any kind of a death, as you see. You boys might be lying there instead of Frost, eh? Well, it’s lucky I found you.”