"It would be folly to go deeper into this bog, or swamp," said Dick. "I vote we keep to the high ground."
"That's the talk," said Sam. "Maybe, when we get up far enough, we will have a chance to look around us."
As well as they were able, they had cleaned off the horses and themselves, and now they took good care to keep from all ground that looked in the least bit treacherous.
"Here is a new trail," cried Tom after about two miles had been covered. "And it seems to lead up a hill, too."
"Then that is the trail for us," put in Songbird, and they took to the new trail without further words.
"Songbird, I don't hear any poetry," observed Dick as they rode along. "What's the matter?"
"Can't make up poetry in such a dismal place as this," was the answer in a disgusted voice. "I wish we were out of this woods, and out of the mist, too. I declare, it's enough to give a fellow malaria."
The sun was trying to break through the mist, which was an encouraging sign. Here and there a bird set up a piping note, but otherwise all was as quiet as a tomb.
