"I guess you're about right, Joe," said Doc, rising with alacrity from
the stone where he had seated himself while telling his yarn.

Joe's bad travelling meant a great deal of tripping and floundering
through soft mud and mire, with slippery moss-stones sandwiched in, and
dwarfed bushes which ran along the ground, and twisted themselves in an
almost impassable tangle. These had a knack of catching a fellow's feet,
and causing him to sprawl forward on his face and hands, whereupon his
knapsack would hit him an astounding thwack on the back.

After three-quarters of an hour of this fun, very muddy, clammy with
perspiration, and thoroughly winded, the party reached firmer ground,
and the guides called a halt.

"Guess we'd better rest a bit," said Joe, "afore we go farther. There's
nothing in forest travelling that'll take the breath out of a man like
crossing a swamp," eying compassionately the city folk; for he himself
was as "fit" as when he started. "Then we'd better follow that stream
till we strike a good place for a camping-ground. What say, Doc?"

Dr. Phil, as captain, signified his assent. After a short
breathing-spell he again gave the command, "Forward!" And his company
pushed on into the woods, following the course of a dark stream which
had gurgled through the swamp.

"There used to be an old beaver-dam somewheres about here," broke forth
Joe presently, when they had made about a quarter of a mile, the younger
guide taking the lead, for he was evidently more at home in this part of
the forest land than his senior, Uncle Eb. "Hullo, now! there it is.