White Sox was too much scared to think. He followed right in his mother’s tracks, getting as close to her as he could, for he could hear the whining yips of the wolves behind him.
They had now reached the shore of the narrow neck between the lakes. Instead of jumping in and dashing across, Mother Reindeer began to walk, slowly and very carefully.
“Huh! huh! huh!”
It was the hard breathing of the fierce wolves close behind White Sox. He was terribly afraid their fangs would be nipping his hind legs in about a minute. He made up his mind to bound past his mother and reach the farther shore ahead of her.
But, oh my! It was lucky he did not.
That narrow neck was a slough. The water in it was not water at all. The minute he put his foot in that thick, gummy, smelly oil, White Sox knew why his mother had slowed down. It reached up to his mother’s knees, and was so sticky that he could hardly wade through it. He followed her meekly, with slow and careful steps.
The slough was about twelve yards across.[2] Halfway over, White Sox looked back again. The two wolves had just reached the brink of the slough.
In they plunged, together, in too great a hurry to notice the resinous substance. But two jumps were enough for them. The oil splashed over their sides and backs. Their great tails became heavy with it, so heavy that they could hardly lift them. They turned slowly and waddled back to the shore in a terrible mess. There was no breakfast of reindeer meat for them that morning.
Mother Reindeer and White Sox reached the farther shore and stepped out of the slough. They stamped their feet to shake off the sticky stuff, but they couldn’t get rid of it.
Poor White Sox! His beautiful stockings were dyed a rich black color.