SCHAROK AGAIN 259 
A little rhyme kept running in my head. ‘De blind 
hoss stickin’ in a big mud-hole,’ it began. 
I admit it was not a very wise undertaking without 
mud-pattens, and more than once | nearly paid for my 
rashness. However, I went staggering along with 
my load, drawing my feet out of the treacherous mud 
as best I could, and counting every pace. I knew I 
had time enough for my job before the tide turned if 
only I could keep myself from sinking. A heavy man 
would not have stood a chance, and as it was, the load I 
was carrying handicapped me much. Once I was all but 
checkmated. For I came suddenly to a creek into the 
edge of which I sank above the knees, and seemed to be 
going altogether. But pitching my posts down on the 
firmer mud, I managed to scramble out on them, but 
what with the scrambling, and what with the fishing for 
the posts again in the black, smelling mud, and the 
loading them on my shoulders, I was a most unpleasant 
body. But I stuck to it, crossing the creek a long way 
up, and coming down its further bank to the same spot 
to take up the record of my paces. 
At last I reached the first point where the creek turns 
to the south. Here I drove in one of my tall posts, 
which I judged would show some three feet for guidance 
at high water. Of course I couldn’t hammer it in 
straight, but I got over this difficulty by driving it in 
slantingly, and then shoving it up till it stood straight and 
fairly firm, the foot well blocked about with mud. It 
