terror-stricken eyes to gigantic proportions.
But I could swear to the blood I had seen dripping from the beast's jaws. Whence had that come?
The horrible answer to all these questions was vouchsafed me that very day.
It being by now early afternoon, I realized that if I were to search for my father today I should have to start at once. As I locked up the house preparatory to setting out I tried to recall to mind the general topography of the region.
The farm, which has been in the possession of our family more than a century, is of considerable extent, and is made up mostly of timberland and swamp, there being only a few acres of open land. Directly to the rear of the house is a large forest tract, some parts of which have not been penetrated by men for years. Beyond this is an almost, unexplored waste known as Marvin's Swamp.
Legend has it that Old Man Marvin, who owned the farm before it came into my family, died in this vicinity under mysterious circumstances, and it is thought that his bones found their last resting place at the bottom of the morass. The only clue to his fate was furnished by his ancient shotgun and a few blood¬ stains found near a stagnant pool in the depths of the marsh. I shudder as I recall the terrible solution I myself was enabled to furnish to this mystery of long ago!
In starting on the search my footsteps followed almost without deviation the course I had pursued the previous night, but this time I was not alone. The great wolfhound was now my guide, and I soon discovered he was following a scent. Indeed, I had considerable difficulty at times in keeping up with him, so great was his evident desire to lead me to a definite spot.
This forest tract is in itself extensive, and is pretty wild. My father had never allowed anyone to hunt here except members of the family, and as a result the place abounded with partridges, squirrels, rabbits and other small game. Occasionally even, I would get a glimpse of a deer or a fox as it leapt away at my approach. Everywhere was the odor of pine, hemlock and decaying vegetation. The silence of the place was so profound that the smallest sound was immediately noticeable, and even the snapping of twigs under foot and the breaking of dead branches as I made my way through the thickets served to keep my nerves continually on edge. At length we had penetrated to the other side of the forest, and I found myself at the edge of Marvin's Swamp. Somehow, call: it premonition or what you will, a cold shiver passed up my spine as I gazed upon this dreary stretch, and I glanced around apprehensively.
Nothing appeared within my field of vision which could possibly be alarming, so after a brief hesitation I followed the big wolfhound, on the trail. Within a few minutes I could see that we were heading, toward the vilest part of the great morass, and again that strange presentiment of evil came over me. The ground was getting softer now, and small sinkholes became more and more numerous. For an hour we pushed on, the way becoming more difficult every minute. The vegetation grew here very rankly, and had become almost entirely aquatic. Cat-o'-nine-tails were now in evidence everywhere, especially about the spot where the dog now impatiently awaited me. This spot was at what marked the center of Marvin's Swamp—a small stream of almost stagnant water known as Dead River.
The name is rather a dignity, for Dead River is in reality little more; than an arm of the main pool of the
