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“About seven inches,” I suggested.

“But it is a great deal easier to carry a young one like this,” she persisted, “and I expect a baby pelican is a much more uncommon sight in the North than a grown one.”

“No doubt of it,” I said. “We must keep him now you’ve got him. Can’t you kill him?”

“I’ve no way of killing him,” returned Euphemia. “I wonder if you could shoot him if I were to hold him out.”

This, with a shot-gun, I positively declined to do. Even if I had had a rifle, I suggested that she might swerve. For a few moments we remained nonplussed. I could not get to Euphemia at all, and she could not get to me unless she released her bird, and this she was determined not to do.

“Euphemia,” I said, presently, “the ground seems hard a little way in front of you. If you step over there, I will go out on this strip, which seems pretty solid. Then I’ll be near enough to you for you to swing the bird to me, and I’ll catch hold of him.”

Euphemia arose and did as I told her, and we soon found ourselves about six feet apart. She took the bird by one leg and swung it toward me. With outstretched arm I caught it by the other foot, but as I did so I noticed that Euphemia was growing shorter, and also felt myself sinking in the bog. Instantly I entreated Euphemia to stand perfectly still, for, if we struggled or moved, there was no knowing into what more dreadful depths we might get. Euphemia obeyed me, and stood quite still, but I could feel that she clutched the pelican with desperate vigor.

“How much farther down do you think we shall sink?” she asked, her voice trembling a little.

“Not much farther,” I said. “I am sure there is firm ground beneath us, but it will not do to move. If we should fall down, we might not be able to get up again.”

“How glad I am,” she said, “that we are not entirely separated, even if it is only a baby pelican that joins us!”

“Indeed, I am glad!” I said, giving the warm pressure to the pelican’s leg that I would have given to Euphemia’s hand, if I could have reached her. Euphemia looked up at me so confidently that I could but believe that in some magnetic way that pressure had been transmitted through the bird.

“Do you think they will come back?” she said, directly.

“Oh, yes,” I replied, “there’s no manner of doubt of that.”

“They’ll be dreadfully cross,” she said.

“I shouldn’t wonder,” I replied. “But it makes very little difference to me whether they are or not.”

“It ought to make a difference to you,” said Euphemia. “They might injure us very much.”

“If they tried anything of the kind,” I replied, “they’d find it worse for them than for us.”

“That is boasting,” said Euphemia, a little reproachfully, “and it does not sound like you.”

I made no answer to this, and then she asked:–

“What do you think they will do when they come?”

“I think they will put a plank out here and pull us out.”

Euphemia looked at me an instant, and then her eyes filled with tears.

“Oh, dear!” she exclaimed, “it’s dreadful! You know they couldn’t do it. Your mind is giving way!”

She sobbed, and I could feel the tremor run through the pelican.

“What do you mean?” I cried, anxiously. “My mind giving way?”

“Yes–yes,” she sobbed. “If you were in your right senses–you’d never think–that pelicans could bring a plank.”

I looked at her in astonishment.

“Pelicans!” I exclaimed. “Did you think I meant the pelicans were coming back?”

“Of course,” she said. “That’s what I was asking you about.”

“I wasn’t thinking of pelicans at all,” I answered “I was talking of the people in the yacht.”

Euphemia looked at me, and then the little pelican between us began to shake violently as we laughed.