They were on the east side of the river, and the trail would have
been hard enough even in broad daylight, but Jerry would waste no
time in crossing over when a few minutes later they halted at the
bridge. Home lay on the other side of the river, and Dave, still
unconvinced, stubbornly insisted on following the west bank, but
Jerry soon cut short the argument by striding off in disgust. After
a minute of uncertainty Dave tagged along behind. Neither spoke; to
tell the truth, they were both decidedly cold, hungry and cross. The
damp, fishy smell of the river somehow set their nerves on edge, and
the long drill through swamps and across creeks and sloughs appeared
none too enticing.

"I say, Jerry," called Davie finally, "let's stop for a breath of
air; I'm about petered out."

"Can't," replied Jerry shortly. "Sky's getting gray now. We've got
to get _there_ before daylight. If we can catch our friend on the
island asleep it'll make things a lot easier. Pull your belt up a
notch and see if you can't put the notch into your legs."

Dave grumbled but obediently hastened his gait. In single file they
cut across the last stretch of knee-deep mud and halted opposite
Lost Island. There it lay, beyond the narrow stretch of steaming,
misty black water, dark and forbidding. There was something shivery
about its low-lying-heavy outline, with nothing visible beyond the
border of thick willow growth.

"Looks like some big crouching animal, doesn't it?" remarked Dave as
they stood an instant peering across.