Both the boys tried to dissuade him from the undertaking, but he was insistent, and finally they gave a reluctant consent. Realizing fully his lack of acquaintance with the swamp, Whyte paid particular attention to his surroundings as he paddled on, fearing that he might turn into one of those little side streams of which King had warned him.
Suddenly, ahead of him, he saw the ducks. Paddling noiselessly, scarcely rippling the water as he passed through, he got within range of the flock without alarming them. Bang! bang! went both barrels of his twelve-bore, and at the reports the ducks rose from the water with a loud whirr. One bird was wounded and lagged behind the others. It fluttered along a hundred yards or so, then sank in a clump of marsh grass, took wing again, but went less than ten yards, when it turned a somersault in the air and dropped.
A few strokes of the paddle carried the bateau close to where the bird had fallen, but when he reached the spot Whyte found that a stretch of marsh lay between the edge of the water and his prize. He tried to reach the duck with the paddle but could not do so. It was a fine, fat bird, as he could plainly see, but it lay beyond his reach.
“Just my luck,” he muttered, after several unsuccessful attempts to reach the bird. “I wonder if those hummocks will hold me,” noticing the tufts of thick, coarse grass that dotted the morass in every direction.
The hummocks looked firm enough to bear his weight, so pushing the prow of the boat as far into the edge of the bank as he could, he stepped out and tried the first one. It was solid and unyielding. Certain, then, that his plan was a feasible one, he sprang to the next hummock and on until he had the bird in his hand. In returning, he rested too much weight upon one of the tufts of thick grass. The treacherous mud gave way, his foot slipped, and down he went into the black ooze up to his thighs.
With an exclamation of impatience, he endeavored to withdraw his feet and legs. They stuck fast. He tried a second time, but the mud held him as in a vise. Putting forth all his strength and seizing several blades of the long, coarse grass within his reach, he tried his best to extricate himself, but to his dismay he found the sticky mud to be as unyielding as quicksand. What was worse, when he ceased his efforts he discovered that he had sunk deeper in the mire and was now embedded nearly up to his breast.
Thoroughly frightened, he remained perfectly passive and began to think. He realized that he was in a serious predicament, held a prisoner, as he was, in the black, slimy mud of the swamp, and it was cold there, too. His gun lay within reach, and, resting the arm lengthwise, he made another attempt to release himself, but his efforts were unavailing. The gun sank in the ooze, and in extracting it he found that his exertions had caused him to sink several inches deeper. The top of the mud now reached to his armpits.
He glanced at the sun, and, seeing it low in the west, was comforted. King and Stebbins, becoming alarmed at his non-appearance, would soon be setting out to look for him, he thought, if they were not already doing so. His eyes wandered towards the opposite bank, and he was struck with its unfamiliar appearance. Instead of the low, flat marsh that lined that side of the stream, as he well knew, he was looking upon a patch of higher land similar to the one upon which King and Stebbins had their home. It dawned upon him then for the first time that he had left the main channel.
As the realization of his true position came home to him, hope died. Thinking that he was somewhere along the stream, he had felt sure of rescue, but his discovery altered the situation completely. How far out of his true course he was he had no way of knowing, and the thought of the awful days and nights that would pass while he stood there dying, if the mud did not eventually bury him and make his death even a more horrible one, was far from pleasant.
Frantically he struggled to free himself, but he was held fast as though he had been shackled in irons, and his struggles only left him exhausted. Great beads of perspiration stood out on his brow. His mouth was dry and parched and his head began to swim. He felt that he was losing his reason, but he pulled himself together with a herculean effort. His legs and feet were cold and numb, and the keen night wind nipped his ears and nose cruelly. The mud under his arms had begun to freeze, and unless he kept breaking it continually with his hands, a stiff crust would form at the top.