Upon Bart the effect was instantaneous, though not of the kind which Captain Corbet expected. A light broke in upon his mind, and a smile burst forth, and spread like sunshine over his lately puzzled face. He said nothing for some time, but looked away so as to take in the full flavor of what he considered so good a thing.

“O, yes,” said he at last. “I see. I understand. I never thought of that before. I must let the fellows know I’ll tell them all at school, from Dr. Porter down to the smallest boy in the primary department. And I’ll let them all know that it was you that told me. They’ve all got an idea that it was invented either by the Arabs, or the Greeks, or the Italians; but now they shall hear Captain Corbet’s theory.”

“Yes—do—do,” said-Captain Corbet, eagerly.

“An’ tell them that I told you. Tell Dr. Porter. I’d like to know what the doctor’s got to say.”

“Say! He’ll say nothing—he’ll be dumb. But I must hurry up. It’s strange, too. I was sure you had a spy-glass. You had one in the boat when you came after us the time we were aground.”

“So we had, but it wan’t mine.”

“Whose was it?”

“Captain Pratt’s.”

“O, then, that accounts for it. I’m sorry too. I hoped to be able to find out where Mr. Long was.”

“Mr. Long? Don’t bother about him. He’s all right. He’s among his native rocks. A man like that; a man that’s a stranger to the charms of a gentle smilin’ babby; a man that gets mad with others, who are nat’rally pinin’ for their absent offspring—such a man has a heart that is a rock, an’ had oughter make up his abode among rocks. I see now why it is that he spends all his time a gatherin’ of ’em. Why, I told him some of the most affectin’ things about my babby. But what did he say? He! He almost swore! Can any parient be willin’ to put his son to be taught by a man like that—a man whose heart is as hard as a nether milestone?”

“He’s very kind to us,” said Bart. “All of the boys at school love Mr. Long dearly.”

“That ain’t the pint,” said Captain Corbet. “The pint is, how does he feel about a babby? Doos he yearn over ’em? Doos he delight in their little pooty ways? Doos he crow over ’em? Doos he nuss ’em an’ dandle ’em? I jedge of a man that way, an’ by them there signs; an’ I call that, by a long chalk, the most entirely jodgematical way of readin’ an’ interpretatin’ human natur’. Read by that light, Mr. Long ain’t a succumstance. He’s left us. I’m glad. Let him wander among the rocks and stones of Blomidon!”

With this, Captain Corbet turned away, not caring to pursue the subject further. Bart went on deck again, to spread among his companions Captain Corbet’s peculiar views on the subject of spy-glasses, sextants, quadrants, and compasses.

These new theories created an immense sensation; and whatever opinion there may have been had before about the captain’s seamanship, there was no question now as to the perfect originality of his views.

XXII.

Being jolly under creditable Circumstances.—Songs, Medleys, Choruses, Cheers, Laughter, Speeches, Responses.—The Mud again.—Hard and fast.—What’ll you do now, my Boy?

MR. LONG had gone from their gaze completely, and could be seen no more. While trying to find him, the boys made conjectures as to where he might be. Giving up all idea of his being on the beach, they imagined him wending his solitary way far up the coast, or, perhaps, scaling the mighty cliff itself in some more accessible place. Gradually the vessel drifted farther and farther away, until at length it was far up in Minas Basin.

“Well, boys,” said Bart, “this is getting to be monotonous. We’re like ferrymen, going forever between two points.”

“Yes, or like the pendulum of a clock, vibrating always, backward and forward.”

“One more night of drifting is before us.”

“More meals of pork and molasses.”

“Or burnt Indian paste.”

“Or smoky molasses candy.”

“The worst of it is, that we have nothing to amuse ourselves with.”

“It’s a pity we couldn’t start some game.”

“Bart, tell a story.”

“A story?” said Bart. “Who could tell a story under such circumstances?”

“I don’t believe,” said Bruce, “that a calm was ever known to last so long in the Basin of Minas. Was it, captain?” he added, appealing to Captain Corbet, who had just emerged from the cabin.

“Wal,” replied Captain Corbet, “it’s not usual to have a calm in the month of May; still, we do-have ’em sometimes.”

“I should rather think we had,” said Bart.

“I’ve known ’em last a week,” said Captain Corbet, solemnly.

“A week?”

“Yes, a hull week; but that was in July. Still, there’s no knowin’. It may be in May this year.”

“Then we’ll have to go ashore in the boat tomorrow. I will. I’ll mutiny, and start off.”

So spoke Bart, and the rest all declared that they would do the same.

“O, we’ll have wind to-night,” said Captain Corbet, in a tone of vague encouragement. “Yes, yes, we must have wind to-night, or before morn-in’. We’ve had about calm enough. You feel anxious, no deoubt, all on ye,” he continued, with a superior smile; “but if you feel so, jedge what I must feel—me, with, my babby. Why, every minute,—yes, every mortial minute,—the voice of that there smilin’ babe is a-soundin’ in my ears. Sometimes he says, ‘GGa-ga-ga,’ and sometimes ‘Da-da-da;’ and sometimes the cunnin’ leetil human creetur emits a cry,—a favorite one of his’n,—that sounds jest like ‘Bo-rax! Bo-rax! Bo-rax!’ Isn’t it odd?”

And he looked at the boys with that mild face of his, whereon was intermingled an expression partly made up of a father’s affection, and partly of tender enjoyment of his little cherub’s innocent ways.

“And what does he mean by Borax?” asked Bruce.

“What does he mean? Why, a’most everything. It’s a pet name he gives to me, you know. That and ‘Ga-ga’—”

“I suppose he doesn’t know the English language yet.”

“No, he hain’t larned it yet; but he’s a-gettin’ on. Why, I could stand here for hours and tell you words of his’n. He’s uncommon spry, too. He—”

“Bart,” cried Bruce, suddenly, “start up a song. Sing ‘Uncle Ned.’”

At this Bart started up a song, which was a medley, made up of “Uncle Ned” and “The Mermaid.” The first verse was as follows:—
"There was an ole nigger, and he sailed on the sea;
And he lived not far from the land;
And he had no wool on de top of his head,
And a comb and a glass in his hand.

Chorus.

"O, the sto-o-o-o-o-o-o-ormy winds, how they blow!
So take up de shubbel an’ de hoe,
While we poor sailor-boys are climbin’ up aloft.
He has gone whar de good niggers go—‘gers go—‘gers go—
He has gone whar de good niggers go.”

This astonishing production was sung with uncommon energy and spirit. At its close Bart retired below, while the others went on singing; and after a short time he returned with a piece of paper in his hand, and a triumphant smile on his face.

“Hallo, Bart! what have you got there?” cried Bruce. .

“It’s an original song,” said Bart.

“By whom?”

“Myself,” he replied, meekly.

“Hurrah! Go it! Sing it! Give it to us!”

“All right; but you must all join in the chorus.”

“Of course. What’s the tune?”

“‘Auld Lang Syne.’”

“Go ahead, then, young feller! Propel! Shoot away! Beady—present—fire!”

Waiting for the noise to subside, Bart stood in the midst of them, and after the cries had ceased, he began:

"Should Capting Corbet be forgot,
A-sailin’ o’er the sea!
O, no! when we get back to school,
We’ll often think of he.

Choruss.

"We’ll often think of he, my friends;
We’ll often think of he.
O, yes! when we get back to school,
We’ll often think of he.”

“What’s that?” cried Captain Corbet, with a smile of pleasure wreathing his venerable face. “Why, it ain’t—why, railly—why, it is me, too! Why, railly! An’ you made up all that? Wal, now, I call that rale cute. I do, railly. On’y I do wish, sense you did take the trouble to make up that there,—bein’ as your hand was in,—I wish you’d kinder added a line interriducin’ the babby. We like to be kind o’ onseparable. It seems kind of agin natur’ to separate us.”

“All right. I’ll introduce anything,” said Bart. “Here, boys, I’ll give you another chorus.

‘We’ll often think of he, my friends;
We’ll often think of he;
The capting and his schewner gay,
Likewise his small ba-be-e-e-e-e.’”

This new impromptu chorus was sung with still greater enthusiasm. Captain Corbet was affected to tears. Emotion overpowered him. As soon as he could muster strength to speak, he exclaimed,—

“You’ve onmanned me—you have, railly. The mention of that blessed babby kind o’ took away all my strength. But I’ll reward you, boys. When we get back, I’ll make you all come up, and introduce you all to the babby himself,—sometime when the old woman’s away, you know,” he added, mysteriously.

“I will now occupy the time by continuing the hymn,” said Bart, solemnly. Whereupon he proceeded:

"I love to go to Blomidon,
Its beauty for to feel;
But I’d prefer a better fare
Than pork and Indian meal.

Chorus.

"Than pork and Indian meal, my friends;
Than pork and Indian meal.—
O, I’d prefer a better fare
Than pork and Indian meal.”

This was sung earnestly and with very deep feeling. The recollection of their melancholy condition caused a mild pathos to be infused into the tones of all. Some of them seemed to be shedding tears. At any rate, they held handkerchiefs to their eyes.

The next verse:

"I love to sail on Minas Bay,
Its beauty for to see;
To hunt for clams among the sands,
And put them into me.

CHorus.

"And put them into me, my friends;
And put them into me.
To hunt for clams among the sands,
And put them into me.”

The mild melancholy that characterized the last chorus here changed into a livelier note, expressive of greater cheerfulness.

The next verse:

"Pratt’s Cove it has the biggest clams
That ever mortal saw;
But when we hunt for clams again,
We mustn’t eat them raw.
CHorus.

"We mustn’t eat them raw, my friends;
We mustn’t swallow them raw.
O, clams are good for human food,
But we mustn’t eat them raw.”

This was sung energetically, yet in a dignified manner. The chorus was intended to convey a wholesome piece of advice to those who might happen to be in need of it,—Pat, for instance,—and so it was sung with dignity; at the same time, the energy with which it was rendered was admirably adapted to enforce the advice and carry it home to the heart and conscience of the hearer.

The next verse:

"We’ve got molasses for our food,
It came from Tri-ni-dad;
And when to candy it is boiled,
It really isn’t bad.

Chorus,

"It really isn’t bad, my friends;
It isn’t very bad.
Molasses, boiled, to candy turns,’
And really isn’t bad.”

A greater degree of liveliness prevailed here at the celebration of the only eatable thing among the stores. There was an intention to do honor to the molasses, and honor was accordingly done.

The next verse:

"Three cheers for Bogud, Billymack,
Three cheers for all the crew,—
For Jiggins, Sammy, Muclcle, Pat, .
And three for Johnny Blue!

Chorus.

Three cheers for Johnny Blue, my friends,
Three cheers for Johnny Blue,—
For Jiggins, Sammy, Muckle, Pat,
And three for Johnny Blue!”

Immense enthusiasm. Surprise on the part of all the boys whose names were thus so unexpectedly “wedded to song.” Recovering from their surprise, each one jumped up, placed his hand on his heart, and acknowledged the compliment by a low bow; after which the song was sung again; after which there came more bows; and it would have gone on thus, with alternate bowing and singing, till the present time, had not the boys themselves felt overpowered, and demanded another verse.

The next verse:

"Three cheers for all the boys on board;
For Corbet three times three;
And thirty more for the jolly black flag
Of the ‘B. O. W. C.’!

Chorus.

"The ‘B. O. W. C.’ my friends,
The ‘B. O. W. C.’
Ever so many more for the jolly black flag
Of the ‘ B. O. W. C.’!”

This last chorus was sung with a vehemence, an ardor, and an enthusiasm that are absolutely indescribable. It included all, and identified all, in the most delicate manner, with the “B. O. W. C.” It was sung over and over, and over yet again, accompanied with any quantity of cheers for everything under the sun. The special allusion to Corbet, in the last verse, elicited a fresh display of emotion from that venerable and highly-impressible party. He did not say much, however. He merely went round among the boys, and shook hands most warmly with all of them, one by one. He asked each one about his father, his mother, his brothers and sisters, and his uncles and aunts. He asked their full names, their ages, and the number of their blood relations. He then made a public address to them, in which he freely offered, at any time, to take any of them, or all of them, on a cruise anywhere, at a moment’s warning. Finally, he reiterated his offer to introduce his babby to them all. This formed a climax. Beyond this he could not go. And there, naturally and inevitably, his eloquent oration ended.

So passed the time. And when you take into consideration the solemn fact that all this time they were drifting, that the sea was smooth, that there wasn’t a breath of wind, that there was no prospect of getting home, or anywhere else, for that matter,—you will come to the conclusion that these boys were jolly under creditable circumstances. And you will be right in that conclusion; for it was in the very face of calms, strong tides, empty larders, wanderings at sea, famine, and privations of all kinds, that these boys stood up and sang their song.

In this sense it became not a mere song of jollity or of idle sport. It was more. It was the song of the unconquered soul. It was a defiance hurled full in the face of Fortune.

The evening passed. The shades of night came down. It was dark, and it grew darker. Until late, the sounds of song, of laughter, and of merriment, came forth and resounded through the night. At length all was still. All on board had descended to their couches, and were wrapped in profound slumber.

The boy who awaked first in the morning gave such a shout that all the others were roused at once.

What was it?

What! An instant told them all. Down through the hatchway there came a blast of wind strong and cool, and full of sea salt. Above, they could see the sail distended to its utmost, while higher up the clouds were scudding across the sky. Below, the vessel was lying far over, as it yielded to the wind; and her pitching and tossing, together with the dash of waves against her bows, told all that she was moving swiftly through the water.

They hurried up to the deck.

Far around them was the blue sea, now tossing into white-capped waves. A fresh, strong wind was blowing over the water, and it was fair. On the right rose Blomidon from out the foam that gathered at its base; on the left the water extended till it was lost in the distance amid the haze that hung over the low-lying shore. Behind them lay the Five Islands, and all that water over which they had so long been drifting. The vessel was heading straight to Grand Pré, and was tearing her way through the water as she had never done before within the experience of any of her present passengers.

Joy reigned supreme. Loud cheers and cries of delight burst forth.

“Why, captain,” said Bart, “I. began to think that the Antelope couldn’t sail at all.”

“Can’t she, though? O, she isn’t a bad sailor when she’s got a wind dead fair like this.”

“When’ll we get to Grand Pré?”

“Wal, that’s difficult to say,” said the captain, thoughtfully.

“Why, you don’t mean to say that there is any danger of the wind stopping now, or changing?”

“O, no; there’s no danger of that.”

“Well, what is there?”

“Why, we can’t get to the wharf.”

“Why not?”

“It’ll be low tide when we get there.”

“Low tide!” repeated Bart, in consternation; “and how far will we be from the wharf?”

“O, miles; and that isn’t the worst of it. You’ll have the Cornwallis River between you and Grand Pré.”

Bart said no more, but retired to convey this disheartening intelligence to his companions. They talked over it thoughtfully and with serious faces.

The vessel went on. The tide was against them, but the wind was strong and fair, and blew with undiminishing power. Looking toward the shore, they could see that their progress was excellent.

Nearer they came, and nearer, until at last they saw before them a vast extent of mud flats, beyond which lay a low ridge all green with verdure; and they knew it as the dike of Grand Pré. Beyond this again ascended the hills, with the white village at the base, and on the slope the conspicuous form of the Academy, with its broad portico and lofty cupola. .

“Where are you going now, captain? You can’t anchor. Is there a port here to run the schooner into?”

“Nary port.”

“What’ll you do? Surely you won’t drift off again?”

“Drift? No, sir.”

“How will you manage?”

“How? Why, there’s only one thing to do; and that is, to run her right straight in on to a mud flat.”

As he spoke, he looked steadily forward, and gave the tiller a pull to starboard. The schooner turned slightly. The next instant it ran squarely upon the mud flat, and stuck there, hard and fast.

XXIII.

A wild Undertaking.—A Race for Life.—The lost Boot.—The Quicksands.—The Isle of Safety.—The Mud Gulch.—Crossing the Abyss of Mud.—Bruce’s Doldrum.—Two forlorn Figures.—Rapturous Welcome.—Speech by the Grand Panjandrum.

THERE they were on the mud flat. It was a situation in which the B. O. W. C. had been before, but experience had not made it any the more pleasant to them.

“We’ve done it before,” said Bruce, “and why shouldn’t we do it again?”

“So I say,” remarked Arthur. “It’s a great deal farther,” said Phil, “but in my opinion it isn’t half so bad as the other one.”

“Of course it isn’t,” said Tom. “The tide is leaving us rapidly, and we’ll be able to jump out upon the mud, and not up to our necks in water, as we did the last time.”

“And so we needn’t prepare to fight with shovel-mouth sharks,” said Phil.

“The fact is,” said Bart, “it’s going to be a difficult job, and harder than the last one, perhaps. We’ve got a couple of miles to go, instead of so many hundred yards. We must face that fact before leaving.”

“We know that very well,” said Phil.

“You see there is Grand Pré just in front of us.”

“Yes.”

“Well, we can’t go there, because between us and that place is the Cornwallis River, which just now is an abyss of mud, with a strong stream running at the bottom. So we’ll have to make an angle, and go up there toward the right, and go in a straight line to Cornwallis Bridge.. It will be two miles to the grass land, and another one to the bridge. So we’ll have two miles of mud.”

“I don’t believe the mud is any different from what we found in the other place.”

“It may not be,” said Bruce, “yet there may be air-holes. We’ve got so far to go that we may find almost anything—air-holes, quicksands, or anything else. Still, I don’t believe that we’ll meet with any.”

“Well, let’s wait till the tide gets down to the bows, and then start,” said Tom.

With this the boys prepared for their journey. These preparations consisted in nothing but getting some stout sticks, which they made by splitting up a board, and smoothing each piece with a knife. After this they informed Mr. Simmons of their intention. He looked aghast, and then told them that they would get too muddy.

At this they laughed, and said that they were covered with mud from their many experiences in the voyage, and couldn’t be much worse. So Mr. Simmons looked at them from head to foot, and then at himself. By this he discovered that the boys were in a comfortably muddy condition, and what was more, that he, Mr. Simmons, he himself, was decorated with many mud marks, which sadly marred the beauty of his black attire. This discovery filled him with such horror that he hurried below, where the sound of a brush in violent exercise showed the boys that he was trying to eradicate the stains, so as to prepare himself for a solemn entry into the village. He did not appear on deck again.

Captain Corbet, however, on learning their proposal, had much more to say about it.

He listened with staring eyes, and then declared that they all were crazy.

“Crazy? Why, ye’re mad as March hares! Do ye know that that there mud is full of air-holes, an’ inhospitable for man an’ beast? Horses air lost there every year. So air knows likewise. People shun it. Death lurks there. I wouldn’t go there for all the gold in Californy There’s quicksands, and there’s air-pots, and there’s holes of all kinds, there’s deep gulps that you can’t cross no how.”

“But did you ever hear of an accident?”

“Course I have. My feyther told me onst about a neighbor of his’n that lost a friend down hereabouts. He was found next day lying on the shore up there—thrown up by the tide. Besides, my wife’s ma told me of people that’s been a-missin’, an’ what it’s strongly suspected that they kind o’ strayed down here, and got drownded. What d’ye say to that?”

“O, it’s all the same. There are five of us. We’ll help one another.”

“Ah, ye’ll help one another! Yes, but to sartin ruination. Why, see here. Look at me. I’m more anxious, a hundred times, to got ashore than you be. I’m a feyther. I’ve got a pinin’ babby that I’m a-yearnin’ after. I’ve got a kind of homesick feel-in’, that never leaves me, arter him; ’ee bessed chicken, so it was! But do I go an’ resk my life? Do I throw myself away? Do I walk over quicksands, an’ air-holes, an’ mud gullies? Not I. I stand here like a man, an’ wait.”

“All right, captain; we’ll tell them you’re comin’,” said Bart, stepping to the bows.

By this time the tide had lowered, so that they could get out from the vessel on the mud. One by one they descended. They found the mud soft, of course, but not very much so.

“O, boys,” cried Captain Corbet, “come back!”

“All right!” cried Bruce. “Come, boys, if we stand, we’ll stick in the mud. Hurry along!”

“Bo-o-oys! come back,” wailed Captain Corbet. “If you get harmed, I can’t follow you to help you.”

“Good by.”

“Bo-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-oys! O, Bo-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-oys!” wailed Captain Corbet, for the last time, as the boys went off. But this time they gave no response. He stood in silence, watching them, for a long, long time, with deep anxiety. The other boys also looked after them with not a doubt in the minds of any of them but that they would come back.

Meanwhile the boys walked on upon their dangerous way.

Perhaps their very ignorance of that danger saved them from it. They walked on in a straight line, knowing nothing of places which the people about believed to be dangerous; and as they found the outset easy, they expected all the rest would be the same. The mud was like that which they had met with before—soft at the surface, but hard beneath, so that they sank in a little distance at every step, but nevertheless, found a firm foothold. The mud was so soft, and the foothold beneath so firm, that their feet were not very badly clogged. They did not find it so difficult as walking over clay roads after they had been soaked with rains, and cut up by heavy teams.

They walked on rapidly, in as straight a line as possible, laughing and shouting, declaring that mud fiats were slandered, and that there was much worse walking on many a country road.

At length the mud grew softer, and the bottom was not so near the surface. To walk over this, even at a rapid pace, was difficult; for where the foot was planted at full length, it would sink so that it was difficult to extricate it. A swifter pace was necessary.

“Are you tired, Phil?” asked Bruce.

“No,” said Phil; and, indeed, he seemed as fresh as any of them.

“Because we’ll have to go faster,” said Bruce. “Come, now, boys—Indian trot!”

Away they went at the peculiar pace known by that name,—the body bent forward, and the fore part of the foot touching the ground with its elastic tread, moving at that slow, steady, easy trot which is faster and lighter than a walk, and but little more fatiguing to those who have the knack of it. This carried them on very well for some considerable distance farther, and on looking back they began to congratulate themselves on the distance which they had already traversed. Ere long the grass-covered marsh was within sight—the place where danger ended, and progress was easier. But between them and that place there still lay difficulties which they knew not of.

Suddenly as they ran on, they were arrested by a cry from Phil. They turned instantly, and were horrified at the sight that met their eyes. Phil, being the smallest and weakest, had fallen behind, and, being out of breath, had loitered a few paces so as to recover, thinking that he would catch up.

Feeling a pain in his side, he had stopped to fasten his belt tighter around his waist, and without thinking he had stood motionless for a minute. In that minute his feet had sunk in the treacherous soil. In his sudden fright at this discovery, he had cried out, and made a desperate effort to extricate himself. With a jerk he had drawn forth one foot, but the other had sunk in up to his knee. And this was the position in which he stood when the others turned.

Another minute and they were by his side, pulling at him. But as they pulled, each one found himself sinking.

“Here, boys, this won’t do,” cried Bart. “Phil, give me your hand. Boys, form a line behind me, one after another. Now let’s catch hold of one another. Now, let’s keep moving backward and forward, quickly, #so as not to stand still. Now, then, pull!”

Backward and forward the line of boys, thus rapidly formed, went swaying, pulling Phil as they did so. The clinging mud yielded, and Phil was slowly dragged forth. But his boot was left behind.

“Never mind the boot,” cried Bart. “Come on as you are,—one shoe off, and the other one on, tol de roi de rido, my son John! Hurrah! Phil, go ahead of me, and I’ll guard the rear.”

All this time, while Bart was speaking, they were running on, Phil limping with his booted and bootless feet. .

“Never mind, Phil! we’ll soon get to a place where you can take off the other boot,” said Bart, encouragingly.

And now began the tug. Their run had been a long one, and their exertions excessive. All of them were out of breath, and panting heavily. The distance still before them was great; but they dared not stop; they dared not even pause for am instant, or slacken their progress in any degree. Phil was most exhausted, but he toiled on with desperate exertions. The memory of his lost boot showed him his danger. That boot left behind remained as a terror, which drove him on.

On and still on. Fainter grew the boys, but they dared not stop. All of them were panting, and laboring heavily, but no relief was near. Far off still lay the marsh with its grass—a fearful distance to those so exhausted, and still compelled to labor so hard.

“I don’t know how much longer I can stand this,” gasped Tom.

“You must stand it! Don’t stop, for your life!” cried Bruce.

The others said nothing. To speak would be but to waste their precious breath, which they were losing only too rapidly.

On and on. Still the soft mud lay beneath them, and an awful fear came to some of them that it was getting softer.

The fear was soon realized.

Softer and softer it grew, and deeper sank their feet. Had this place only been found at an earlier period, they could have returned, or they would have had strength to struggle on; but now it came in the hour of their extremest exhaustion. It was a hollow in the mud, somewhat lower than the surrounding surface.

“We can’t go through this,” said Bruce; and he pointed to the centre of the hollow, which looked fearfully soft and liquid. “Let’s go around it;” and turning rapidly, he started off toward the right. The boys said nothing. They floundered deep in the mud,-they panted, they gasped, they moaned in the despairing efforts which they made.

“I’ll lie down,” gasped Phil. “I—won’t—sink—“.

“On, on! Never! We’ll all have to die if you stop.”

These words came from Bart, who, exhausted as he was, caught Phil’s arm, and dragged him on.

At that moment Tom fell.

“It’s all up with me, boys,” he moaned. “Leave me. Save yourselves.”

Bruce said nothing. He snatched him up out of the mud, and pulled him along, while at this fresh exertion his whole frame quivered, and his feet sank deeper.

How long could this last?

Tom could scarcely keep his feet. Phil could hardly keep upright, and move his legs. Arthur could barely stumble along. Bart and Bruce bore. it best, and could help the others still.

But for how long?

A shout of joy came from Bruce.

“Hurrah! Look there!” he cried. Tom raised himself by a last effort, and turned his feeble eyes to where Bruce pointed. He saw, at a little distance, a green patch in the mud.

It was marsh grass!

At that instant all recognized it. The sight of it brought fresh strength to their despairing energies. It gave new life to Tom and Phil. A few steps more, and the soft mud grew harder; and soon after they were all standing on the patch of marsh grass.

No sooner had they reached this place, than they all flung themselves down upon the mud, out of which the coarse grass grew. For some time not a word was spoken. All lay there breathing heavily. Looking back, they could see the wide extent of mud flats which they had traversed. The schooner was far away, and those on board could no longer be distinguished. The soft spot in which they had been wallowing, and out of which they had found their way, spread for a great distance, not only between them and the schooner, but also on one side. Between them and Cornwallis there appeared to be a firmer surface, like that which they had found on leaving the schooner. Besides this, there were patches of grass interspersed here and there, like islands, in this sea of mud. Here they might find resting-places if they were again exhausted. The spot on which they lay was the outermost of these.

They did not hurry away. They needed a good long breathing-time, and they took it. Phil took off his remaining boot, declaring that if he had only got it off before, he would not have been so exhausted. He preferred walking over the mud barefoot, he said. This seemed to the others a good idea, and they all took off their boots and stockings, so as to pass over the mud more lightly.

At length, after about half an hour, they all rose, and resumed their journey. The mud spread away before them; and though there were patches of grass at intervals, yet the real marsh land itself did not come within half a mile of them. This distance would have to be traversed before they could reach the nearest verge. And now, keeping their eyes fixed upon the Cornwallis shore, they all set out afresh.

Their progress was easy, such as it was when they first set out, with this difference, that their goal was near, and resting-places frequent. Nearer and nearer they came to the marsh land; nearer and nearer still,—and now they were close to it,—and now they had just reached it,—when suddenly, just as they seemed to touch it, there yawned between them and that green inviting goal a deep crevice, the course of some sea current, at the bottom of which trickled, even now, some water, which probably came from one of the numerous drains of the dike land before them. The sides sloped down at an angle of forty-five degrees, and consisted of the softest mud, which seemed by its appearance ready to ingulf at once any one who might step upon it. To cross here was impossible. It could not be even ventured upon.

The ground at the edge was firm enough for them to stand and survey the situation. On the left the gully seemed to go toward the Cornwallis River, on the right it seemed to approach the land. Supposing that it came from the dikes, and that it would grow narrower if they ascended in that direction, they turned off toward the right. They found their surmise correct. After walking for a half mile, the gully had become much narrower, and had diminished from a width of thirty feet and a depth of twelve, to a width of ten and a depth of six. But here they found themselves at a fork, where the gully that came from the dike land divided “itself, one part going toward the Cornwallis River, and the other far down through the mud flat toward the bay. To go around it, or in any way avoid it, was impossible. It was necessary to cross it at all hazards.

“We must do it, boys,” said Bart. “So here goes.”

Saying this, he threw over his boots. Then he went back for some distance. Then he rushed forward, and springing from the edge of the bank, he shot through the air, and landed on the other side.

“That’s more than I can do,” said Tom. “I’ve got to wade it.”

“Nor can I,” said Phil.

“Go it, Arthur,” said Bruce.

Arthur went back, and took a run like Bart, and jumped. But he fell two feet short. His feet sank deep into the soft mud. He struggled for a moment, and falling forward, dug his elbows into the top of the bank. Bart seized him, and after some violent struggles he was free.

After this all the boots were thrown over. Bruce encouraged Phil and Tom.

“Now, boys, go it. I’ll wait here to help you.”

“But we can’t jump.”

“Arthur and I will go down on this side, and Bruce on the other, and help you,” said Bart; and he descended at the same time, followed by Arthur, while Bruce descended the opposite side. Their feet sank in for some distance, and then found bottom.

Phil then went down, and gave a wild leap, and his feet just cleared the middle. For a moment he floundered, but struggled onward, and caught Bart’s hand. Another minute, and he was safe over.

“I’ve not got much strength left, boys,” said Tom; “but I’ll do what I can.”

“Steady now—wait,” said Bart, “let me get a little farther down. Arthur, give me your hand.” Saying this, Bart descended a little farther.

Tom ran down, his feet sinking deep. Near the middle he tried to leap over, but his feet sank so that his leap failed. He fell short, and his advancing foot struck the very middle of that soft pudding in the bed of the gully. He sank to his middle at once, struggling, and panting, and throwing himself forward. Deeper and deeper he sank. It was an awful moment. At length a last violent effort brought him a little nearer. Bart dropped Arthur’s hand, and clutched that which was despairingly outstretched by Tom. At the same moment Arthur caught Bart, and they dragged at their sinking companion. For some time they did nothing toward extricating him.

But now with a bound Bruce had sprung across, and hurried to their assistance. Going down close by Bart, he caught Tom’s other hand. Then, with all their strength united, they pulled. Their own feet sank deep, but they thought not of that. Tom was coming out. He was out. He was saved!

Drawing out their own feet then, they helped Tom up to the top of the bank, and there they rested once more. Tom was not exhausted, but only weakened, and a few minutes were sufficient for him to rally. So, without saying much about this last adventure, they resumed their journey.

There lay the marsh right before them at last. There, too, not far away, rose a dike, beyond which were the dike lands. Their perilous journey was at last approaching an end. Soon they were on the marsh, where the coarse grass was now in its early spring growth, and not high enough to impede their progress. A short journey through this brought them to the dike. It was only a fe\v feet in height. They climbed to the top, and looked around. There was the Cornwallis River about half a mile away, and there, farther up, the bridge that crossed it. The coarse stubble of the grass hurt their feet, so that they walked along the top of the dike toward the river. This walk was easy and pleasant; and after their severe journey, it was even delightful. In this way they went on, till at last they reached the bank of the river, when they turned and walked up the edge toward the bridge.

At first the bed of the river was, as Bart had said, a vast abyss of soft mud, through which ran a swift stream, flowing at the bottom of this abyss; but as they walked on, they came at length to a place where the mud was intermixed with gravel, which extended down to the water, and up on the other side. Here Bruce stopped, and looked down, and then across. .

“What’s the matter?” asked the others.

“O, nothing. I’m thinking about trying to cross.”

“To cross! You’ll never get across,” cried Phil.

“Yes,” said Bart. “It can be done. I’ll try it if you will, Bruce. You see it isn’t all soft mud here, but the gravel goes down, and up the other side. I don’t believe it’s deep, either.”

“Well, if it’s over our heads, we can swim a little.”

“But see how strong the current is,” said Tom. “It will carry you off.”

“O, it can’t carry us far,” said Bruce. “I’m in for it. You see, boys, it’s too aggravating to look across the river here, and see the Academy close by on the other side, hardly more than a mile or so away, and then turn off for a four or five mile walk around. You fellows had better go up to the bridge, and get a wagon, and drive round. Bart and 1 will try it here, at any rate. If we can’t get across, we’ll follow you.”

Without listening to any further remonstrances, Bruce and Bart descended the slope. The bed was very wide and deep, though now nearly empty, and they did not know how deep the water might be that ran there. They expected to ford it. The other boys stood on the bank watching them with intense interest.

The gravel, mixed with mud, formed a good footing; and Bruce and Bart stopped here for a time, and put their boots on, so that if they had to swim they might not be impeded with bundles.

The water was running swiftly by. It seemed wider now than it did at the top of the bank. But they did not hesitate. In they went side by side, Bruce on the right, and Bart below him on the left. The water grew deeper and deeper. It came up to their waists, then up to their armpits. Bart could not possibly stem it a moment longer. He was lifted from his feet, and borne on.

Those waiting at the top of the bank felt their hearts stop beating as they looked.

But Bart’s head was above water, and he struck out bravely for the opposite shore. He knew he would not have far to swim, for he had already gone nearly half way when he was swept off his feet. The current still bore him down, but his own efforts were dragging him to the opposite shore at every stroke.

After Bart had lost his footing, Bruce still walked on. He held himself so that he could resist the current to some extent. But at last he, too, lost his footing, and was swept after Bart. He struck out strongly; and while carried down by the current, he, too, drew nearer the opposite shore.

Bart had just touched bottom, and sprang up, with the water scarce higher than his waist, and looked around for Bruce. As he looked, he caught sight of Bruce’s face. It was turned toward him in agony, close by him, and but a little behind. Two hands were flung out, and with a gasp and a groan Bruce sank.

For an instant Bart stood petrified with horror. A wild thought of sharks flashed through his mind. But the next instant he had grasped Bruce, and was dragging him half fainting, still gasping, out of the water. In a few minutes they were on the bank, where they both sat down.

“It was a—a palpitation—of the—the heart,” gasped Bruce. “I’ve felt—queer.—ever since that—affair—on the—the cliff.”

“Yes. You’ll have to keep quiet, Bruce, for some months to come. You see you’ve been exerting yourself tremendously to-day, and this last thing has been too much. You’ve got to look out, for a thing like this is not to be trifled with.”

By this time the other boys had rushed down, and were on the opposite side halloing, and asking what was the matter.

“O, nothing—a doldrum of Bruce’s,” cried Bart. “‘He’s all right now.”

“All right!” said Bruce, lifting up his pale face, and nodding.

“You hurry up, boys,” said Bart. “Get a horse at the bridge, and drive home.”

Upon this the boys left, and went to the bridge. After about a quarter of an hour, Bruce felt able to start. They ascended the bank slowly; and after reaching the dike land, they went across in a straight line for the Academy. They walked slowly at first, but Bruce regained his strength more and more at every step.

At length they reached the gateway of the Academy grounds. Wet to the skin, handkerchiefs round their heads, with their clothes ragged, and plastered with mud from head to foot, so that hardly any of the original color was visible, these two forlorn figures attracted universal attention; and soon all the small boys were around them cheering, and shouting, and asking about the schooner.

Out came Mr. Long, who had arrived the previous evening without accident.

Out came Dr. Porter, astonishment in his face.

Out came every inhabitant of the Academy and its precincts, all making inquiries.

And, last of all, out came Solomon, with an enormous white collar standing up above his ears, and,—

“O, de gracious! O, de sakes alive, now! What’s dis dat dis ole nigga does see! You gwine away whar glory takes you, an’ back agin to be de light of an ole cuss’s life! An’ whar’s all de rest ob all dem bressed chil’en? O, dis de-lightful day an’ hour! An’ you wet as ebber wet kin be by failin’ in de briny wave! Bress dis old nigga’s heart! but whar you git all dat mud from? An’ me hopin’ an’ prayin’ fur dis glorious time! What’s become ob all de Wenebble Breddren? Heah comes de Wenebble Patrick, an’ de Wenebble Wodden, wid de ‘Gran’ Panjydanderum in de shinin’ train! O, dis day an’ hour!”

And with exclamations like these, poured forth with amazing volubility, Solomon walked along backward before them, and his voice died away, in the distance to a prolonged and unintelligible hubble-bubble.

About an hour afterward Arthur, Phil, and Tom drove up, and were received in a very similar manner. If the “B. O. W. C.” liked to create a sensation, they certainly had reason to be satisfied.

Mr. Simmons, with the rest of the boys, did not get to the Academy till late in the day.

But long before that, in fact, at high noon, Solomon received the “B. O. W. C.” in the diningroom. They had luxuriated in the bath, and Solomon had prepared for them the banquet. He surpassed himself. His genius had invented new dishes expressly for the occasion, and the “B. O. W. C.” ate, and were refreshed.

THE END