“It’s queer what has become of the rascals,” he said. “I’m inclined ter think they’ve struck south, so we’ll try that tack next. No use in tryin’ that direction,” and he pointed his long arm eastward. “Over thar stretches a swamp fur miles an’ miles. It’s full of wild beasts, an’ it ain’t possible fur a man to go through it. I never heard of a hunter or trapper what was in the place. They’re all afraid of it.”
Jerry and Hamp did not dispute this, for they were familiar with the swamp’s evil reputation.
The anxious searchers pushed on through a wild and rugged country until sundown. They were then, as nearly as they could judge, several miles southeast from the lower end of Chesumcook Lake.
They camped in a spruce thicket on the edge of a meadow. By means of a fire and a lean-to they defied the cold, and spent a fairly comfortable night.
Breakfast was prepared, and eaten amid a gloomy constraint. When the luggage was packed, Sparwick lit his pipe, and sat down on a log facing his companions.
“This is a queer business,” he said. “I ain’t denyin’ that I’ve kinder lost my bearin’s. We’ve sarched purty near every place whar them fellers would likely hev gone with the lad. It looks now as though they had struck out of the woods. There’s a railroad settlement about twenty-five miles from here—a bit of a place called Kingman.”
“But would they take Brick there with them?” asked Hamp.
“It ain’t likely they’d run such a risk.”
“Then they must have murdered Brick,” cried Jerry.