They got themselves up, and began walking leisurely along the beach, stopping now and then to pick up a shell or to dip their bare feet in the up-running waves.
“This is the place, Ken,” said Arthur, turning to two tall palmettos growing on the edge of the forest.
“No, that isn’t it,” the other replied. “There was a crooked cedar near the path where we came out.”
“I bet it’s the place,” Arthur said positively. “Let me prove it to you.”
When they reached the trees mentioned, they glanced beyond them, and saw the thick black ooze of the morass. A pale fungus thrust out of the mud here and there added to the dismal aspect of the place.
“Ugh!” Arthur shivered.
“I told you so,” Kenneth jeered; “not a sign of a path.”
They walked on, looking for the crooked cedar, but not one could be seen. Everywhere were palmettos, straight and tall, swaying in the breeze and beckoning like sirens alluring them to the destruction that lurked just beyond.
Every little opening that looked as if a path might lead from it was searched eagerly, but the black swamp always stared them in the face whenever they looked beyond the first line of trees. Hour after hour they searched, at first hopefully, then doggedly, driven on by the feeling that they must do something—that if they hunted carefully enough and persistently the way would surely be found.
The sun sank lower and lower, and the feather-like fronds of the trees cast longer and longer shadows over the beach; still the boys searched for that mysterious path. Thirst was added to ravenous hunger that increased every minute. The long walk through the woods, and later the almost continuous exposure to the sun, had brought on a longing for water that was getting well-nigh unbearable.