Bart Keene's Hunting Days: or, The Darewell Chums in a Winter Camp. Chapman Allen

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      “I’ve almost got one hand loose. I’ll soon have it out, and then I’m going to take off this bandage. There’s no use of us staying here like a lot of chickens tied up, when we can just as well get away.”

      “That’s the trouble – we can’t get away,” came from Frank. “I’ve been trying for the last ten minutes to loosen these cords, but I can’t slip a single knot. They knew how to tie ’em all right.”

      “You just watch me,” called Fenn, who was squirming about on a bed of leaves.

      “Watch you – yes, with our eyes bandaged,” said Ned, sarcastically. “That’s a hot one.”

      “Patience, noble knight,” mocked the stout lad, “and I’ll soon release ye.”

      “Stumpy is so fat that they didn’t have rope enough to tie him,” remarked Bart. “That’s the reason he thinks he can get loose.”

      “I don’t think it, I know it!” cried Fenn in triumph a few seconds afterward. “I’ve got both hands out, and now here comes off my bandage.”

      A moment later Fenn uttered a cry.

      “What’s the matter?” asked Bart, making an unsuccessful attempt to get rid of the ropes binding his arms and legs.

      “Why we’re in Oak Swamp, or, right on the edge of it,” replied Fenn. “They brought us farther than I thought they did. But we’ll fool ’em all right. We’ll get loose, skip out, and when they come back they won’t find us. Wait until I get these ropes off my legs, and I’ll help you fellows.”

      Fenn was as good as his word. A few seconds later he was free from his bonds, and, in turn, he released Bart, Frank and Ned. They all looked around in some surprise, for they had no idea that they had been brought so far from home. The wagon had traveled faster than they had suspected.

      “Oak Swamp,” mused Bart. “It’s a good thing it’s coming on winter instead of summer, or we’d be eaten up with mosquitoes. Well, let’s get out of here. I don’t like the place.”

      Indeed it was gloomy and dismal enough at any time, but now, on a late fall evening, with darkness fast approaching, it was anything but an inviting place. The swamp derived its name from a number of scrub oak trees that grew in it. During the summer it was a treacherous place to visit, for there were deep muck holes scattered through it, and more than one cow, and several horses, had broken out of the pastures, and wandered into the wet place, only to sink down to their deaths. It was said that several years before a man had endeavored to cross the swamp, had been caught in a bog hole, and sucked down into its depths, his body never having been recovered.