with the canoe would be to wait for night and try to shoot down in the darkness. Chances are we’d be spilled at that.”
Lack of food and loss of sleep, together with their steady flight through the woods, was now beginning to tell painfully on both and mid-day found each little inclined to talk and walking doggedly.
At last Stanley gave a low cry of relief and threw himself on his face at the edge of the swamp.
“Hi, what are you up to?” demanded Bub, in a low voice. And he pulled his companion back.
“I want a drink. I’m all parched up,” said Stanley. “For the last few hours all I could think of was springs of clear cold water.”
“That’s nothing,” sniffed Bub. “I’ve been doing the same thing, only I thought of it in rivers. But you mustn’t drink this.”
“Is it poison?” asked Stanley, his face falling.
“Not poison,” returned Bub. “The waters in Maine are not poison, not any of them. But this isn’t what you’d call wholesome. It wouldn’t kill you, but it might make you sick. Of course there isn’t as much chance for that
