"Oh, do get me out!" cried the unfortunate Mr. Bunn.

"We'll save you!" shouted the manager, as he made a dash toward the bog
hole. He was followed by Mr. DeVere, Paul and some of the others.

"Keep back!" yelled the man from the steamer. "If you get in you won't
get out either."

"But they must save him!" cried Alice, who had gone forward with her
father.

"They can't save him by getting into the quicksand themselves!" pointed
out the man who seemed to know the deadly nature of the bog. "The only
way is to fling him a rope."

"A rope! There isn't one nearer than the steamer!" cried Mr. Pertell.

"I'll go get it!" offered Mr. Switzer. "I am a goot runner!"

"It will be too late, I'm afraid," objected the steamer hand. "He is
sinking faster now."

This was indeed but too true. Whereas at first the clinging mud and sand
of the bog hole had only been up to Mr. Bunn's knees, he was now engulfed
to his waist.

"We'll have to make a rope!" cried Mr. Towne. "Tear up our coats, or
something like that."

"I know a way, Ruth," declared Alice. "We have on two skirts. The under