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"I've heard," said Mr. Johnston. "His was a brave and commendable act." "No, my dear." He patted the horse's thin neck. "Come, ol' feller, I'll stuff you with good oats fer once," he promised. Great mosquitoes whined about his head and stung his neck and ears. Mottled flies bit him and left a burning smart. The saw-like edges of the grass cut his hands and strove to trip him as he pushed his improvised raft forward. Once his foot slipped on the greasy bog, and the quicksands all but claimed him. But he pushed on, reaching at last the black sullen shallows, putrid and ill-smelling with decayed growth, and alive with hideous insects..