imself to face the trial
like a man, though it is hardly to be wondered at that he felt hope
quickly leaving him, as inch by inch he sunk into that horrible green
death-trap.

Then, just as suddenly as if a voice had spoken to him from the very
grass at his feet, there flashed into his mind the words that the good
old Scot had spoken by the camp-fire the previous night--

"There's a Hand that could guide the frailest birch-bark through
Niagara."

Bob remembered, and hope sprang up in his heart with a bright-burning
flame. Yet his faith was severely tested, as the mud crept up, up--now
to his hips, then slowly advancing beyond his waist, until at last it
was embracing his chest in a cold grip.

CHAPTER XI

TO THE RESCUE!

As Bob had surmised from the sounds that reached him, Alf had not been
long in striking luck. Shortly after leaving the camp he bagged first
one chicken and then another, and in a short time was lucky enough to
bring down a fine jack-rabbit. Then he hastened back to camp, and
arrived there just as he heard the sound of Bob's gun in the far
distance.

"I guess I've done the better of the two," he said merrily, as he
displayed the result of his half-hour's hunt. "That's the first shot
that I've heard from Bob."

"There's no telling. Maybe your friend has shot an elephant!" remarked
Mackintosh. "Here, Haggis! Tak' these birds and the beastie from the
laddie, and dress them for the spit. There's a fine roasting fire, and
we'll be having dinner all ready by the time Maister Bob gets back. I'm
thinking that he's come off second best the day."

"Not much praise to me. If there's nothing to shoot, a fellow can't get
much of a bag, can he?" remarked Alf generously. He was ready enough to
laugh at his friend in a good-humoured way. It was quite another matter,
however, for any other person to cast the slightest sneer at his chum.
"I was lucky in finding sport right at hand. But when it comes to
shooting--a quick aim on the wing or on the run--I can't hold a candle
to Arnold. Hark! Did you hear that? He has brought down two, to balance
with my three."

"Young boys give long trail," remarked the half-breed, who was pushing
wooden skewers through the birds, preparatory to balancing them on
wooden Y's before the fire.

"Too long," grunted the Scotsman. "We can't afford to waste time. I was
meaning to start off again soon after dinner."

But by the time the birds were ready for eating, and the