The bites decided him against a foray into the marsh paths. He had read of several cases of people, lost in marshy country, who had been dangerously bitten and infected by the swarms of nocturnal pests, swamp mosquitos.
He sat down again, drawing out and spreading the map before him on his table.
Damp, softened, the paper was very hard to handle. He wondered, as he studied it, why Doc had chosen that special one, if it was all he had taken.
“It doesn’t show much of the real construction detail,” he mused. “If I’d wanted to sell plans, I’d have taken the detail drawings—the new pontoon design, the special tail construction plans, the details of the way the plates would fit together for strength and lightness. Oh, well, maybe Doc took what first came to hand and was looking it over—with his bottle to help him think it was valuable!”
He looked up, startled.
“Was that a step?” he asked himself, straining his ears.
With instinctive caution he slipped the curled paper back into his coat, buttoning its loose buttons across his chest.
A low, hollow thumping came to his tense ears.
“What’s that?” he wondered. “Where is it coming from?”
He kept mouse-still, listening.