can at least try,” replied the girl, with spirit.
“Hobble! Pass ’em over here, Winnie, my boy.”
The slippers were handed over. Blake took one after the other, and wrenched off the heel close to its base.
“Now you’ve at least got a pair of slippers,” he said, tossing them back to their owner. “Tie them on tight with a couple of your ribbons, if you don’t want to lose them in the mud. Now, Winthrope, what you got beside the knife?”
Winthrope held out a bunch of long flat keys and his cigarette case. He opened the latter, and was about to throw away the two remaining cigarettes when Blake grasped his wrist.
“Hold on! even they may come in for something. We’ll at least keep them until we need the case.”
“And the keys!”
“Make arrow-heads, if we can get fire.”
“I’ve heard of savages making fire by rubbing wood.”
“Yes; and we’re a long way from being savages,–at present. All the show we have is to find some kind of quartz or flint, and the sooner we start to look the better. Got your slippers tied, Miss Jenny?”
“Yes; I think they’ll do.”
“Think! It’s knowing’s the thing. Here, let me look.”
The girl shrank back; but Blake stooped and examined first one slipper and then the other. The ribbons about both were tied in dainty bows. Blake jerked them loose and twisted them firmly over and under the slippers and about the girl’s slender ankles before knotting the ends.
“There; that’s more like. You’re not going to a dance,” he growled.
He thrust the empty whiskey flask into his hip pocket, and went back to pass a sling of reeds through the gills of the coryphene.
“All ready now,” he called. “Let’s get a move on. Keep my coat closer about your shoulders, Miss Jenny, and keep your shade up, if you don’t want a sunstroke.”
“Thank you, Blake, I’ll see to that,” said Winthrope. “I’m going to help Miss Leslie along. I’ve fastened our two shades together, so that they will answer for both of us.”
“How about yourself, Mr. Blake?” inquired the girl. “Do you not find the sun fearfully hot?”
“Sure; but I wet my head in the sea, and here’s another souse.”
As he rose with dripping head from beside the pool, he slung the coryphene on his back, and started off without further words.
CHAPTER IV
A JOURNEY IN DESOLATION
Morning was well advanced, and the sun beat down upon the three with almost overpowering fierceness. The heat would have rendered their thirst unendurable had not Blake hacked off for them bit after bit of the moist coryphene flesh.
In a temperate climate, ten miles over firm ground is a pleasant walk for one accustomed to the exercise. Quite a different matter is ten miles across mud-flats, covered with a tangle of reeds and rushes, and frequently dipping into salt marsh and ooze. Before they had gone a mile Miss Leslie would have lost her slippers had it not been for Blake’s forethought in tying them so securely. Within a little more than three miles the girl’s strength began to fail.
“Oh, Blake,” called Winthrope, for the American was some yards in the lead, “pull up a bit on that knoll. We’ll have to rest a while, I fancy. Miss Leslie is about pegged.”
“What’s that?” demanded Blake. “We’re not half-way yet!”
Winthrope did not reply. It was all he could do to drag the girl up on the hummock. She sank, half-fainting, upon the dry reeds, and he sat down beside her to protect her with the shade. Blake stared at the miles of swampy flats which yet lay between them and the out-jutting headland of gray rock. The base of the cliff was screened by a belt of trees; but the nearest clump of green did not look more than a mile nearer than the headland.
“Hell!” muttered Blake, despondently. “Not even a short four miles. Mush and sassiety girls!”
Though he spoke to himself, the others heard him. Miss Leslie flushed, and would have risen had not Winthrope put his hand on her arm.
“Could you not go on, and bring back a flask of water for Miss Leslie?” he asked. “By that time she will be rested.”
“No; I don’t fetch back any flasks of water. She’s going when I go, or you can come on to suit yourselves.”
“Mr. Blake, you–you won’t go, and leave me here! If you have a sister–if your mother–”
“She died of drink, and both my sisters did worse.”
“My God, man! do you mean to say you’ll abandon a helpless young girl?”
“Not a bit more helpless than were my sisters when you rich folks’ guardians of law and order jugged me for the winter, ’cause I didn’t have a job, and turned both girls into the street–onto the street, if you know what that means–one only sixteen and the other seventeen. Talk about helpless young girls– Damnation!”
Miss Leslie cringed back as though she had been struck. Blake, however, seemed to have vented his anger in the curse, for when he again spoke, there was nothing more than impatience in his tone. “Come on, now; get aboard. Winthrope couldn’t lug you a half-mile, and long’s it’s the only way, don’t be all day about it. Here, Winthrope, look to the fish.”
“But, my dear fellow, I don’t quite take your idea, nor does Miss Leslie, I fancy,” ventured Winthrope.
“Well, we’ve got to get to water, or die; and as the lady can’t walk, she’s going on my back. It’s a case of have-to.”
“No! I am not–I am not! I’d sooner die!”
“I’m afraid you’ll find that easy enough, later on, Miss Jenny. Stand by, Winthrope, to help her up. Do you hear? Take the knife and fish, and lend a hand.”
There was a note in Blake’s voice that neither Winthrope nor Miss Leslie dared disregard. Though scarlet with mortification, she permitted herself to be taken pick-a-back upon Blake’s broad shoulders, and meekly obeyed his command to clasp her hands about his throat. Yet even at that moment, such are the inconsistencies of human nature, she could not but admire the ease with which he rose under her weight.
Now that he no longer had the slow pace of the girl to consider, he advanced at his natural gait, the quick, tireless stride of an American railroad-surveyor. His feet, trained to swamp travel in Louisiana and Panama, seemed to find the firmest ground as by instinct, and whether on the half-dried mud of the hummocks or in the ankle-deep water of the bogs, they felt their way without slip or stumble.
Winthrope,
