I picked out a string of
them. The first one is out there about a hundred yards away, and I
believe that's about the average distance between them. If we can dope
out some scheme for getting across a hundred yards of that mush at a
time I believe we can make it. That mud doesn't run on forever; I'm
sure I saw solid ground with timber on it to the north."
"How far away?"
"It's impossible even to guess at the distance in that light. I'll go
up in the morning and have another look."
"Do the islands look solid?"
"There's brush on them; that's all I could see."
"My God, I'm thirsty," said Higgins irrelevantly.
"I have been so for the last two hours," responded Payne.
"And you saw no water out there?"
"No."
"Then we'd better not eat any more of that venison. Meat makes a man
thirsty. A hundred yards, you guess, between the islands. Well, I can
dope out a rig to beat that game. There's branches and saplings enough
here, and creepers, and vines for ropes."
"Snowshoes!" cried Roger, grasping the idea.
"The same principle. Only we won't wear 'em. We'll each make us a
pair of mats about four feet square. Big enough to support us. I've
crossed rotten ice on 'em lots of times. Stand on one and toss the
other ahead of you, step ahead, reach back, pick up the one you left,
and toss that ahead.
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