‘Pretty well fixed for a cruise, ain’t you?’ he asked. ‘Tent an’ everything, eh? Plenty of victuals, too, likely. Well, well, solid comfort I call it.’ He grinned leeringly. ‘Nice little boat you got, fellers. Belong to you, does it?’ ‘It belongs to his father.’ Tim indicated Pud, at the wheel. ‘That so? You come from Livermore?’ ‘No, Millville, about thirty miles up-river.’ Pud heard this much, and then Lank was speaking. ‘There we are,’ said the latter. ‘See that cypress with the broken limb? Head up about twenty feet beyond it and keep away from shore till you see the opening.’ The dark wall of trees loomed closely through the twilight now, the water showing far backward between the swollen trunks, black and mysterious. On this side, the lake shallowed slowly to meet the cypress swamp, and it was necessary to follow the shore well out from the fringe of trees before turning toward the stream. At last Lank gave the word and Pud doubtfully turned the boat’s nose shoreward. But a moment later he saw that there was an opening between the cypress trees about twelve feet wide, and into this the launch slowly chugged. ‘How much does she draw?’ asked Lank. ‘I don’t know exactly,’ replied Pud. ‘Not more than eighteen inches, I guess.’ ‘She’ll make it then. Better let me take her through this stretch. There’s a lot of turns, and if you don’t know where they are you’re likely to get snagged.’ Pud resigned the wheel and stood by, watching curiously as the stranger steered the boat dexterously through the narrow stream. The latter turned a dozen times before it emerged from the gloom of the cypress woods, but fortunately none of the turns were abrupt. It was a weird and desolate place, that swamp. Looking upward, Pud could see dimly the feathery tops of the trees merging into the gray mist. On every side the funereal trunks were crowded close together and but little light filtered down to the black water about them. Dead branches protruded in strange and uncanny shapes, and some aquatic growth powdered the surface with infinitesimal green leaves. It was a trifle lighter on the stream and its course lay like a lead-gray ribbon ahead and behind. Save for an infrequent voice from the boat the silence was absolute, oppressive. They were all glad when the launch floated at last between banks of marsh grass and the gray twilight took the place of the deeper gloom of the forest. Lank yielded the wheel to Pud. ‘Straight sailin’ now,’ he said, ‘and plenty of water under your keel.’ ‘Is this Two-Pond Run?’ Pud inquired. ‘’Tain’t called that yet, but the Run’s only a mile or so ahead.’ ‘Do you live around here?’ ‘Well, no, not ’round here exactly. We’re sort of visitin’. Fishin’ a bit, you know. Didn’t have any luck to-day, though.’ Pud started to say that he hadn’t noticed either lines or poles in the skiff that was floating along behind, but thought better of it. Instead, ‘I’ve heard the fish were pretty big in Cypress Lake,’ he observed.