The marsh, like all the marshes thereabout, was intersected at
irregular intervals by decrepit lines of fence-railing, running down
from solid ground to the water's edge, half a mile away. These
divisions were necessary for various reasons. In duck season the
hunters who came up from San Francisco used them both as guides and
as property lines, each club shooting over only a given number of
sections. Between seasons the farmers kept them in repair, as a
control for the cattle that strayed into the marsh in dry weather.
The distance between these shaky barriers was some two or three
hundred feet. At their far extremity, the posts were submerged in
the restless black water of the bay.

Mary Bell caught Henderson's arm as he stood baffled and silent.

"Mr. Henderson!" she said eagerly, "don't you give in! While we're
waiting for the others we can try for the boys along the fences!
There's no danger, that way! We can go way down into the marsh,
holding on,--and keep calling!"

"That's what I say!" shrilled old Barry, fired by her tone.

The Chinese boy had already taken hold of a rail, and was warily
following it across the uneven ground.

"They've BEEN there three hours, now!" groaned Henderson; but even
as he spoke he beckoned to the two little boys. Mary Bell recognized
the two survivors.

"You keep those flames so high, rain or no rain," Henderson charged
them, "that we can see 'em from anywheres!"