Zeb took off his coat and then shinned up the tree. Then, hanging by his hands he began working out along the branch. As he went it bent till it hung right over the mudhole. Before long his feet dangled above the professor's head.
"Now then, professor," panted Zeb, "take hold on my feet and work along toward the edge of the hole with me."
The professor seized Zeb's boots with the grasp of a drowning man. The branch cracked ominously.
"Easy thar, professor," warned Zeb earnestly. "Don't pull more'n you can help or we'll both be in the soup."
The professor lightened his grip and slowly, hand over hand, Zeb began the slow journey back along the branch. It was a feat only possible to a man whose muscles were of iron. And before it was over even Zeb was almost overcome. Perspiration streamed from his forehead and soaked his shirt as he dropped from the branch, having accomplished the journey and pulled the professor to the bank.
"That's what I call toeing a man out of trouble," punned Dick, in the general relief that followed.
"Good thing it warn't no further," puffed Zeb, mopping his forehead. "My arms feels as if they'd been stretched on one of them racks you read about in the history books."
"How did it happen, professor?" asked Jack, as they scraped the mud off the scientist.
"It's hard to say," was the response. "I was walking along, intent on my collecting, when I came to a barren patch of ground that was crusted over with stuff that looked like salt. I stepped out on it to investigate and suddenly in I went. Faugh! how it smells."