“Get the oars,” said Mr. Ellsworth, quietly. “We’ll row ashore. Cast the anchor,” he called. “We may be able to get the body. That’s about all we can do, I’m afraid. He probably lost his life with the first impact. He was dead long before he reached the bottom.”
There was not a scout among them but was sobered by the dreadful thing; Harry Stanton had lost his nerve entirely; and it was a solemn little group that scrambled into the Honor Scout’s skiff and rowed for shore. Garry Everson, who was a better swimmer than any member of the Bridgeboro troop, had already thrown off his outer clothing and was well toward shore. Others, for whom there was not room in the skiff, followed swimming, until only Harry Stanton, Raymond, and Westy Martin whom Mr. Ellsworth had asked to remain with them, were left on the smaller boat.
“It’s worse than that hill near camp,” Garry called to the boys in the approaching boat. “It’s a regular everglades.”
They found the place a veritable maze of tangled swamp, with a spongy, uncertain foothold. In toward the hill the land was firmer but at close range and without an open view it was impossible to determine where the body had fallen.
“Can you point out about where it was?” called Roy, from the shore.
Westy pointed as best he could and the shore party, spreading, began a systematic search of the spot.
“Is this the place?” said Doc who, as a matter of general precaution, had his first-aid case slung over his shoulder. He was standing on the brink of a black pool, which they thought to be right under the spot where the body had fallen.
“Wait till I see how deep it is,” said Garry, wading in. He was soon beyond his depth and swimming. “If he fell in there we’ll never get him,” he said, emerging with black slime dripping from him.
“Maybe he caught in the branches of some of those trees,” suggested Connie.
It was the signal for several scouts to scramble up among the knotty branches of the trees in toward the precipice, but without result.