“The first thing about Maine water,” informed Bub, after refreshing himself, “is that it’s cool. That helps a lot. And I never heard of any spring or stream up here that by nature is dangerous to drink. Of course a river is filled with typhoid fever germs where city sewers empty into it, but any stream that’s not been poisoned by man will never poison man in this state. Now, let’s be going.”
Nearly two hours were consumed in crossing the swamp, the youths often floundering up to their waists. Bub evidenced a fear of striking a deep hole and warned Stanley they must keep within helping distance of each other. Stanley replied with stories of quicksands he had read and Bub ’s apprehension was increased to a high pitch before firmer footing announced they were leaving the mud and muck.
“Ain’t we a sight?” puffed Bub, as he halted and scraped the mire from his legs.
“I’ll wait till my mud dries,” shrewdly decided Stanley. “Then it will come off easier. I guess Big Nick could follow that part of our trail all right.”
“It will close up as smooth as ever in a short time,” said Bub. “Now, we’ll enjoy decent going.”
“I’m thirsty, awfully thirsty,” muttered
