The answer, which was more like a growl than a human response, left
no doubt of the man's meaning. Neither boy felt the slightest desire
to swim across to Lost Island. Instead Jerry waved his arms over his
head and then pointed downstream.

So once more they trudged along, disheartened more than ever, for
somehow the actions of that weird figure on Lost Island had made
their search look more of a wild goose chase than ever. The island
was soon passed, but Jerry found himself peering hopelessly across a
sluggish, muddy-bottomed slough that promised many a weary minute of
wading before he could hope to establish communication with his
companion again.

So it was with a great feeling of relief that, once more on solid
ground, he heard Dave's call.

"Say, Jerry, we're pretty near down to Tomlinson's wagon bridge.
What you say that we hustle on down and meet halfway across--and
wait there for daylight. I'm about woozified."

"Good!" agreed Jerry, pleased that the suggestion had come from
Dave. "Even the thought of it rests my old legs till they feel like
new. I'll just race you to it!"

But it was a slow sort of race, for neither boy was willing to take
a chance in passing the most innocent shadow--which always turned
out to be a water-soaked log or a back-eddied swirl of foam.
Nevertheless, it was a spent Dave who sank gasping to the rough
plank floor of the middle span of the wagon bridge a scant second