More vexed than frightened, he made a more determined effort to draw one foot out, but found that he only sank deeper. In sudden anger, he struggled fiercely. What a sight he would be to return to camp with his clothes all covered with mud! And such mud! How he loathed it! He must, he would get out, and again he tried, leaning from side to side, tugging first at one foot, then at the other, but to no avail.
Thoroughly frightened now, and filled with panic, he threw himself first backward, then forward, to left, to right. Desperately, wildly, he strove to draw himself from that awful bog. It seemed as if some terrible monster with countless hands were dragging him down, deeper, deeper into that awful mire. The more he struggled, the deeper he sank.
All at once he realized this and ceased to struggle. He tried to think. Was it possible that there was no way to get out of this all-enveloping mud? Could it be that he was to die here, all alone? And such a terrible death!
The thought sent a shudder through him, and for a few moments he felt faint and ill. But no, it could not be! Why, his life was just begun! What about all those plans to make the most of every ounce of ability God had given him, to make a successful man of himself, to help others, to make this old world some better because he had lived? Why, he could not die, he could not! He had too much work to do first!
He thought of the merry words that had passed between him and his fellow Scouts only a short hour before. How full of life he had been! Why, he was as full of life now! Nothing had changed! The sun shone warm upon his upturned face, the air was sweet with the smell of growing things. A brilliant butterfly settled for a brief moment on his motionless hand, fluttered, and flew away. A bird rose from a tree, and, spreading light wings, was soon lost to sight.
How he envied that bird! It was free, while he, worth countless birds, was held here, where, if help did not come to him soon, he must die. His boy heart was filled with despair.
But no, he would not despair! He must think of some way to help himself. There must be some way! Some of the Scouts must be near.
He called again and again, but no answer came back to his straining ears. He kept his face toward the sky, for he did not dare look down at that terrible mud, but yet he knew that he was sinking, slowly, steadily. He could feel that the muck was half way between his knees and his waist.
If he could only get someone to help him! If he could only make someone hear! If he only had something—ah, a sudden thought sent such a thrill of hope through his heart that it fairly hurt.
His whistle—his Scout’s whistle! Why could he not signal with it? He, like all other Boy Scouts, was familiar with the American Morse telegraph alphabet. He would try and, placing the whistle to his lips, he sent out in shrill notes his call for help.