Bogle had sunk above his waist in the middle of the slushy spot, which was nothing less than a treacherous bog. He was struggling desperately to free himself, and his face was ashen-gray with terror.
“Don’t leave me here, youngster,” he pleaded. “It’s a regular death-trap. I’ll never get out alone. Help me, quick.”
“I can’t do it,” replied Brick. “I’ll only get in myself. Anyway, I would be a fool to put myself in your power. You’ve murdered the man that tried to help me, and you ought to hang for it.”
Bogle swore a terrible oath, and his eyes flashed a bitter hatred at the lad. Again and again he struggled furiously to escape from the oozy quagmire. His body sank lower and lower, until the surface of the bog was almost level with his armpits. Then his rage changed to abject despair.
“For the love of Heaven, save me,” he begged. “Don’t you see that I am being sucked down? I will be dead in five minutes. There lies a log at your feet. Roll it out here. The bog will easily bear your weight.”
Brick looked on with horrified eyes. He could not make up his mind what to do. It was hard to risk the freedom which he had gained at such cost.
Bogle noted the lad’s hesitation.
“Don’t be afraid,” he cried. “I swear to do you no harm. If you get me out of this place, I will set you free. I will give you all the money back, and will guide you to the edge of the swamp. Do you think a dying man would deceive you?”
His voice rose to a shrill pitch, and he extended his arms appealingly.
Brick concluded to trust the ruffian. He could not bear to go away and leave him to such a terrible fate.