Bob Hart, like Ben Hoover, was on the commissary staff that day, and was fishing for a mess of trout for dinner in the brook about a quarter of a mile from the bog.
Pausing to take breath, after a particularly fine fish had been landed, he wondered what that queer whistle was that came faintly, yet insistently to his ears. Was it some bird he had never seen or heard until then? Well, it was a queer, jerky note, anyway.
All at once there was something in that whistle that made him drop pole and line, and stand listening not only with all his ears, but with all his heart.
There was something familiar about it. What was it? Ah, now he knew! It was a signal—a message in the Morse alphabet, and again he listened intently.
Two short, sharp whistles—that was I. One long-drawn, and then a short whistle—that was in. Then in quick succession the other letters of the message, In the bog. Help me. Hurry.
Every nerve in Bob’s alert young body responded to that pitiful call. He ran—he raced—he flew, while always came that cry, “Hurry! Hurry!” faint at first, but louder as he neared the bog. It seemed as if his feet were held down with leaden weights. Why could he not go faster? In his eager heart the wish was repeated again and again, Oh, if he only had wings!
On, on he sped, and nearer and more insistently came the call, “Hurry! Hurry!”
Now perhaps he was near enough to call and, raising his clear voice, he shouted, “Courage! I’m coming! I’m coming!” and sweeter than angel music the words sounded to Ben Hoover, sunken now to his waist.
A moment more, and Bob was there, encouraging him and promising to have him out in a jiffy, but this was far more easily said than done. To find something he could throw to Ben that would serve to keep him from sinking farther—that was the first thing. After that he would think of something to do to draw him out.
He pulled some bushes up by the roots and, as he threw them, told Ben to push them close up against him and rest his arms upon them. He felt sure they would keep Ben from sinking deeper. They did help, and for a moment both Scouts thought their problem solved and they chatted hopefully of the help that Bob was to bring. Vain hope! Suddenly the bushes sank from view, and in the suction they caused poor Ben sank lower.