They started to move to one side. But Tom was curious, and chancing to see a stone among some bushes, hurled it at the object, hitting it directly in the center.

Up came an ugly-looking head, the object whipped around swiftly, and the next instant the boys found themselves confronted by a swamp snake all of six feet long and as thick as a man's wrist!

"Mine cracious!" burst from Hans' lips. "It vos a snake annahow! Look out! he vill eat us up alife!"

"We must get out of here!" cried Sam. "Oh, Tom, why didn't you leave it alone?"

"I didn't really think it was a snake," answered the fun-loving Rover.

"Somebody shoot it!"

Queer as it was, n.o.body had thought to use his pistol, but as Tom spoke d.i.c.k pointed his weapon at the snake, that was crawling rapidly over the tree roots towards them. The puff of smoke was followed by a writhing of the reptile, and they saw that it had been hit although not fatally wounded.

"Wait, I'll give him another shot!" cried Sam, who now had his pistol out, and as the head of the snake came up over a tree root, the youngest Rover fired point-blank. His aim was true, and the head of the snake went down, and the body whirled this way and that in its death agonies.

"Is he--he dead?" faltered Tom.

"Next door to it," answered Harold Bird. "That last shot took him directly in the throat. I do not think he will bother us any more."

They saw the body of the snake sink down in the water beneath the upper roots of the tree, and then continued to retreat, making their way to what looked like safer ground. They were now completely turned around, with only the sun to guide them in their course.

"This is no joke," said d.i.c.k, gazing around in perplexity. "If we are not careful we'll become hopelessly lost."

"I think somebody had better climb a tree and look around," said Tom.

"I'll go up if somebody will boost me."

The others were willing, and soon the fun-loving youth was climbing a tall tree which stood somewhat apart from the others. He went up in rapid fashion and before long was close to the top.

"Can you see anything?" called up Sam, after what seemed to be a long pause.

"h.e.l.lo!" cried Tom. "Why, there is the small lake and, yes, the launch is moving from the sh.o.r.e."

"The launch?" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Harold Bird. "Do you mean my gasoline launch?"

"It must be yours--or some craft very much like it," answered Tom.

"There, it is out of sight now behind the trees."

Tom waited for fully a minute, but the launch did not reappear.

"Who was on board?" questioned d.i.c.k, as his brother came down.

"I couldn't make out."

"Which is the way to the spot where we tied up?" asked the young Southerner, impatiently. "We must investigate this without delay."

"Over that way," answered Tom, pointing the direction out with his hand. "Come, I think I saw a good way to go."

Then all of the party struck out to reach the landing-place without delay. They felt that something unusual had occurred, but what, they could not surmise.

CHAPTER IX

TWO YOUNG PRISONERS

Left to themselves. Fred Garrison and Songbird Powell hardly knew what to do to pa.s.s away the time. With all of the others away the spot where the gasoline launch had been tied up appeared to be unusually lonely.

"I can tell you what, I shouldn't care to be caught all alone at night in such a spot as this," said Fred, with something of a shiver.

"It is about as dismal as any place I've seen."

"Right you are," murmured Songbird and then continued:

"The lonely waters washed the lonely sh.o.r.e, Where they had washed full many a moon before, I listened pensively--not a sound Was there to break the tomblike silence all around!"

"Great mackerel, Songbird!" cried Fred. "Don't go on like that. It's enough to give a fellow the creeps!" But the would-be poet only continued:

"I listened for a single bird, But not a note my ear there heard, I looked up in the calm, clear sky--"

"And nervous enough was I to fly!" finished Fred, and went on: "Songbird, if you've got to make up poetry give us something cheerful.

Can't you make up something about--er--about circus clowns, or apple pie, or--er--"

"Circus clowns or apple pie!" snorted the would-be poet, in deep disgust. "Well, you are the limit, Fred Garrison. No, I can't make up poetry about circus pie or apple clo--I mean apple clowns or circus, pshaw, you know what I mean--"

"I didn't mention mixed pickles," observed Fred, demurely. "But if you can mix--What's that?"

He stopped short and straightened up on the launch seat, and so did Songbird. Both had heard voices at a distance.

"They must be coming back," said Songbird. "It didn't take them long."

They listened, and set up a call, but no answer came back. Then they looked around searchingly.

"That's funny," murmured Fred.

"I don't think it's funny," was the low answer. "Something is wrong."

"Help! My foot is caught!" came presently, in a m.u.f.fled voice. "h.e.l.lo, the launch! Help me somebody, quick!"

"Who is that calling?" asked Songbird.

"Somebody of our crowd and in trouble," answered Fred, and leaped ash.o.r.e with Songbird at his heels.

The call had come from a thicket about a hundred feet away, and in that direction dashed the two unsuspecting youths, never dreaming of the plan laid to trap them. As they ran into the thicket four persons came behind them, and in a trice each was thrown violently forward on the ground and held there.

"Wha--what does this mean?" gasped Fred, as soon as he could get his breath.

"It means that you are prisoners," came in the voice of Gasper Pold.

"Keep quiet now, it will be best for you."

"Blindfold 'em and be quick about it," came in a low tone from one of the others of the party.