“How many miles do you suppose we’ve walked in this brook?” Warde asked.
“I don’t know how far you’ve walked in it,” said Ed, “but I’ve walked in it ninety-two and eleven-tenth miles. I think it runs into the Gulf of Mexico.”
“Nix,” said Westy.
“No? Then it runs into the kitchen sink.”
“It runs into a lake and we’re coming to it,” said Westy. “We’ve been walking over three hours. Shall we take a chance and camp there?”
“Either that or we walk right into the lake, don’t we?” asked Ed. “If I’m going to do that, I’d like to know it beforehand if it’s all the same to you.”
“What do you say, Warde?” Westy asked.
“I’m too tired to say anything,” said Warde. “If those friends of yours were to come and shoot me, I couldn’t be any more dead than I am now.”
“Correct the first time,” said Ed.
Soon the brook began to broaden out and presently the fugitives for the first time found themselves in water too deep for wading. They were almost at the edge of a sheet of water, black as ink, where it lay surrounded by precipitous hills. A more desolate spot one could hardly imagine. It was easy to believe that they were the first human beings to lay eyes on it.