They set off single file as before, Violet Elizabeth bringing up the rear, Jumble darting about in ecstatic searches for imaginary rabbits. Another small bog glimmered ahead. Violet Elizabeth, drunk with her success as a squaw, gave a scream.
“Another thquithy plath,” she cried. “I want to be firtht.”
She flitted ahead of them, ran to the bog, slipped and fell into it face forward.
She arose at once. She was covered in black mud from head to foot. Her face was a black mud mask. Through it her teeth flashed in a smile. “I juth thlipped,” she explained.
A man’s voice came suddenly from the main path through the wood at their right.
“Look at ’em—the young rascals! Look at ’em! An’ a dawg! Blarst ’em! Er-r-r-r-r!”
The last was a sound expressive of rage and threatening.
“Keepers!” said William. “Run for your lives, braves. Come on, Jumble.”
They fled through the thicket.
“Pleath,” gasped Violet Elizabeth in the rear, “I can’t run as fatht ath that.”