When the meal was over, the men prepared for bed. They made Brick lie down between them, and his left wrist was fastened to Bogle’s right by a pair of slender, steel bracelets.
Brick was too sleepy to mind this indignity. From the moment his head touched the pine boughs, he knew nothing until he woke, to find the light of day shining through the cabin’s one window.
The fire was roaring, and the table was set. Raikes was frying bacon and potatoes, and Bogle sat near by, smoking a pipe.
“Get up, youngster,” he called out, when he saw that Brick was awake. “How do you feel this morning?”
“Pretty good,” answered Brick.
He was puzzled to account for the ruffian’s affable manner.
Raikes now announced that breakfast was ready. He pulled a bench to the table, and the three sat down. Bogle was the last to finish. He rose and opened the door.
“Come here, youngster,” he said.
Brick obeyed. From the threshold the prospect was dreary and dismal. No snow was falling, but it lay deep on the bit of clearing. Overhead was the murky, gray sky; in front the tangled thickets of the marsh.
“I want to tell you where you are,” resumed Bogle. “This cabin is in the biggest and loneliest swamp in the State of Maine. Raikes and I built it two years ago. No one ever comes near the locality. The swamp is regarded as inaccessible. Your friends would not find you, if they searched for ten years. Even if you escaped, you could never get put of the swamp. You would lose yourself, and travel around in a circle.”