They were, indeed, going into a new country, that is, a new and strange country to them, but really a very cold country if they were to believe the signs about them. They were scarcely out of sight of the camp-fire site when they stumbled on to the ruins of the old town of St. Joseph. It had evidently been a gay and prosperous place at one time. The outlines of the foundations of huge cotton warehouses were distinctly traceable and the ground was littered with pieces of broken bricks. A little farther on they found a foundation almost half full of broken champagne bottles, and beyond that the oval of a racetrack almost uncanny in its appearance of recent use. There were certain things about it which made it seem as though the place had been suddenly destroyed by an earthquake or other catastrophe only a short time before. It was very hard to realize that there had been no one living there for eighty years.

It was a question with the boys whether they would push on west along the beach in the hope of striking a town in that direction or whether they would turn north to the main-line railroad. Their experience with the blind pocket which they had gotten into the night before made them a little afraid of the beach, and they had no idea how far it might be in that direction before they would come to a town. They knew that the railroad could not be over forty miles north and thought it would be reasonable to expect to find some settlement in that direction. Food was beginning to be a serious consideration.

They stood on the edge of the old town and looked about them. Each knew what was in the other’s mind.

“Let’s try it to the north,” Murphy suggested. “There ought to be some grub somewhere up in that direction.”

That agreed pretty well with Scott’s decisions and they turned toward the north. The country was about as forlorn-looking as any that Scott had ever seen. The big timber had been cut away for some miles, probably to supply the old town, and there was nothing left but a scattering stand of scrub oak on the flat, white sand, with now and then a small patch of scrub palmetto. Aside from the old and blackened stumps there was not a trace of the civilization which had at one time flourished so near there. They had been traveling through this dismal waste for about an hour.

“Don’t look much like anything to eat around here!” Scott exclaimed in disgust.

Murphy did not reply. He was too hungry for words, but after about a half-hour’s silence he answered:

“Wonder why a fellow has to think about something he can’t get all the time. I try to think about something as far away from food as I can and in two minutes I’m longing for a beefsteak again.”

Scott had been trying the same thing and knew that it was true. But they both felt that their strength would hold out for the day all right and they would surely find some habitation before the end of the day. The sand was not soft enough to bother them and they were making good time. At least they did not have to worry about the men who were looking for them over there to the east.

They must have covered about six miles in this way when the same old curse of this country loomed up in front of them in the form of a swamp which stretched as far as they could see to east and west. They both sighted it at about the same time and looked at each other in utter disgust.

“I am for going straight through her,” Scott exclaimed determinedly, “if she is ten miles wide and a mile deep. If you follow the edge of it west it will probably lead to a quicksand on the beach, and if you follow it east you will end up on that same neck where those fellows are waiting for us. This country seems to have been built for their special benefit,” he added bitterly.

“I’m with you,” Murphy agreed doggedly. “I’d rather drown than be starved to death.”

So they held to their course and traveled straight toward the great black swamp. It might have looked like courage to an onlooker, but they themselves knew that it was desperation. If it happened to be a narrow one they would get through all right; if it was a wide one, well—they probably could not do much better by trying to get around.

They were not more than a hundred yards from the swamp when Scott stopped with an exclamation of surprise. They had come upon a distinct trail angling across their course. There were no footprints in it now, but it was a broad trail such as people make, and showed evidence of having been considerably used at no very distant date.

“What do you suppose that is?” Scott asked wonderingly.

Murphy looked at it with little interest. He could not eat it and he no longer had any interest in anything unless it gave promise of dinner. “Leads down to that logging camp unless my geography is crooked and we might as well follow it to the swamp. It’s going our way.”

“Maybe it goes through the swamp,” Scott suggested with a flash of hope. “Wonder where those fellows did get their supplies from? I should think they would have been afraid to get them from the river boats. It would have made their place too conspicuous.”

They followed the trail with curiosity even if without much hope and saw it duck into the heavy brush. As he ducked in after it Scott uttered a shout of triumph. There was a boat chained to a tree at the end of the trail. Like the trail it was far from new but showed signs of use at a comparatively recent date.

Murphy’s spirits came up with a bound. “Well,” he exclaimed, “this is the first piece of real luck we have had in some time. That boat looks almost as good to me as a loaf of bread.”

The question of ownership never entered their heads. They had been in dire need of a boat and Providence had provided one. There were no questions asked. There were no oars, but Murphy cut a pole with his hunting knife and they were soon skimming over the water merrily.

“Set your course due north, boy, and point it out to ............