Meanwhile, Frank and his comrade were pushing for the shore as rapidly as the conditions allowed.  By exercising a certain amount of discretion they were able to follow up one of the oyster reefs that thrust out from the bank like the fingers of a human hand.

“We’ll make it all right,” declared Bluff presently.

“Yes, and without getting in deeper than half way up.  But I’m wondering why we don’t hear anything more from Jerry.  He had six charges in his rifle, you know.”

From Frank’s tone it was easy to understand that he was worried.

“Say, perhaps that was meant for a signal,” suggested Bluff suddenly.

“There were three shots, just as we’ve always agreed, but then they were scattered somewhat.  I hardly agree with you, Bluff, though it may be true.  I hope it is, and yet Jerry must have known we had no boat.  He would hardly want us to come ashore unless he was in a mighty serious pickle.”

“Anyhow, we’re nearly there, and must soon know the worst,” said Bluff, whose face looked a bit peaked under the suspense.

More through accident than design, they landed close to the spot where the old palmetto shack could be seen.  Frank pointed to an enclosure along the edge of the bayou, made by piling up logs and pieces of coquina rock.

“Turtle crawl,” he said, as they hurried past, and Bluff only gave it one look, for his attention was taken up with the more serious matter that had brought them ashore.

Advancing to the shack, Frank looked in, but there did not appear to be a living soul around.

He surveyed his surroundings with anxiety.  Great live-oaks, with their crooked limbs covered with the trailing Spanish moss; tall palmettos, and shorter young ones of the same type; gumbo-limbo trees, wild plum, and several wild orange trees, made up the immediate surroundings.

“Oh! if we only had some idea which way he could have gone!” exclaimed Frank.

“Perhaps he left a trail,” was the bright thought of Bluff.

“Almost impossible to map it out in this black sand,” Frank replied; but, nevertheless, he started to look, since there was nothing else to do.

A dozen impossible things flashed through Frank’s brain as he bent over to try and pick up the tracks of his missing chum.  Whatever could have happened to Jerry?  Usually he was able to take good care of himself; could it be possible that some inmate of the dilapidated shack had stolen upon him, bent upon robbery?  In that case, how account for the shots?

“Let’s shout,” said Bluff again.

“A bright thought, and surely it can do no harm.  Let me call singly, Bluff.”

Thereupon Frank lifted up his voice and shouted: 

“Jerry!  Jerry!  Where are you?”

The call rang through the thick jungle under the live-oaks.  A small animal, possibly a ’coon, scurried through the undergrowth.  In an adjacent tree a Florida bluejay gave forth a discordant scream.  A fox-squirrel barked saucily, and with a flirt of his bushy tail scrambled around to the other side of a hickory tree.