He thrust his head forward, more in the desire to suck in some of the outer air than because he expected to be able to pass it through the opening.
A thrill shook his whole frame when he found that he could thus thrust his head completely out of the prison cell. Seized with a new hope he began wriggling his body sideways, his right shoulder first of all being pushed through.
And though it proved a tremendous task, and a tight fit, Bob managed to press completely through the narrow aperture! He fell in a heap on the ground, almost done for, yet with a feeling of thanksgiving. And his second thought was of that mother who he knew full well would be heartbroken should anything happen to either Sandy or himself.
Although Bob had apparently collapsed after bursting out from his strange prison, he did not long remain there on the earth.
"I must be up and doing," he cried, as he struggled to gain his feet.
There was Sandy to think of, and, besides, it was quite too hot so close to the burning stump. How he longed for a cool drink to moisten his parched throat!
"My gun! I could not think of leaving that behind!" he exclaimed, turning back once more, after starting to leave the scene of his singular adventure.
Throwing himself down on the ground, he pushed close up to the tree and inserted his arm, groping in the quarter where he remembered his musket had last stood. At first he failed to touch it.
"Why, that's odd," he exclaimed, dismayed at the idea of losing his precious weapon, for another could not probably have been obtained in its place for long, weary months.
Perhaps, after all, it happened to be just out of reach of his fingers. Thinking thus, Bob snatched up a piece of wood that had escaped the ground conflagration. It was about a foot or so in length, and afforded him the assistance he needed.