"Don't, don't, Carl," exploded Dick Sherrill solicitously. "Lie still,
man! I was afraid something would get you."
Carl fell back indifferently.
Presently with a slight smile he sat up again.
"I'm all right now, Dick," he insisted. "It's nothing at all. I've
had something like it once before. Don't mention it to my aunt. She'd
likely fuss."
Dick readily promised.
"Nevertheless," he insisted, "we're going to break camp in the morning.
This infernal bog's got on my nerves. There are more creepy, oozy
things in that cypress swamp over there than a man can afford to meet
in the dark. To the devil with your wild turkeys, Nick! Quail and
duck are good enough for me."
The camp wagons drove back to Palm Beach in the morning. Carl was very
quiet and evaded Sherrill's anxious eyes. He seemed to be brooding
morosely over some inner problem which frequently furrowed his forehead
and made him very restless.
"Cheer up!" exclaimed Dick reassuringly. "You'll feel better when you
get a shower and some other clothes. As for me, I'm going to hunt
field mice and ground doves from now on. Lord, Carl, I'll never forget
that beastly swamp. Did I tell you that last night, after all our
discomfort, I got nothing but a smelly buzzard? Ugh!" Dick's hunting
interest was steadily on the wane.
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