“I wonder if this is another case of ‘Lost in the Dismal Swamp,’” said Arthur, whose looks belied his cheerful tone.
“No; this path is perfectly clear. It will be easy enough to get back, if we want to,” Kenneth replied. “Getting cold feet?”
“No, sure not; but I would like to get out into the open, all the same.”
The thick trees shut out all the breeze there was, and the damp, currentless air was heavy with the odors of decaying vegetable matter. Perspiration was running down the boys’ faces, and spots of dampness began to show on the backs of their white jumpers.
“Hurrah!” shouted Kenneth, “there’s the beach.”
A rift in the trees showed the blue sky, and the invigorating sound of surf reached their ears. Soon they came upon a stretch of sand that shone white under the morning sun—smooth and hard and clean as a newly-swept floor.
In a minute the two were running races up the beach that stretched before them like a straightaway track. They ran and frolicked from the pure joy of living. Under the clear sky and shining sun, they forgot the gloomy forest and the stagnant marsh. Not till they were all out of breath, did the rollicking skipper and his undignified mate stop to rest; then they stretched at full length on the clean sand, and gave themselves up to the joys of doing nothing, when there was no need to work under the stress of an exacting conscience.
Neither of the boys realized how long they had lain there, supremely comfortable as they were, until the pang of hunger began to make itself felt.
“Look at that, Ken,” Arthur exclaimed, pointing to the sun long past the meridian. “Why, it must be afternoon.”
“My stomach feels like it,” the other admitted. “Better be going back, I guess.”