“Save me!  Save me!  I am in the quicksand and it’s sucking me down!”

“That’s right!  He is in a quicksand bog!” cried one of the steamer hands who had helped hew a path through the swamp.  “He’ll never get out if you don’t help him quick!”

CHAPTER XVI

A STRANGE ATTACK

It was true, then.  The frantic appeals of Mr. Bunn were not in the interests of acting for moving pictures, but because he felt himself in actual danger.  None of his friends had thought of that, until the man from the steamer offered confirmation.  They had all thought the actor was doing a realistic bit of work.

“Quicksand!  Do you mean it?” gasped Mr. Pertell.

“I certainly do,” answered the steamer hand.  “There are a lot of those bogs around here, and he’s stumbled into one.  He’s going down every minute, too, and if you don’t get him out soon you never will.”

“Oh, mercy!” screamed Miss Pennington.  “How horrible!”

“To be buried alive!” gasped Miss Dixon.

“Quiet!” commanded Mr. Pertell, sternly.  “Come on, gentlemen!” he called to the male members of the company.  “We must save him!”

“Oh, do get me out!” cried the unfortunate Mr. Bunn.

“We’ll save you!” shouted the manager, as he made a dash toward the bog hole.  He was followed by Mr. DeVere, Paul and some of the others.

“Keep back!” yelled the man from the steamer.  “If you get in you won’t get out either.”

“But they must save him!” cried Alice, who had gone forward with her father.

“They can’t save him by getting into the quicksand themselves!” pointed out the man who seemed to know the deadly nature of the bog.  “The only way is to fling him a rope.”

“A rope!  There isn’t one nearer than the steamer!” cried Mr. Pertell.

“I’ll go get it!” offered Mr. Switzer.  “I am a goot runner!”

“It will be too late, I’m afraid,” objected the steamer hand.  “He is sinking faster now.”

This was indeed but too true.  Whereas at first the clinging mud and sand of the bog hole had only been up to Mr. Bunn’s knees, he was now engulfed to his waist.

“We’ll have to make a rope!” cried Mr. Towne.  “Tear up our coats, or something like that.”

“I know a way, Ruth,” declared Alice.  “We have on two skirts.  The under one is of heavy cloth.  Couldn’t we tear those into strips—?”

“Of course!  How wise of you to think of it!” replied the other girl.  “Daddy, we can provide a rope!” she cried, and she quickly whispered to him what Alice had suggested.

“The very thing!” he agreed.  “Quick, slip behind the bushes there and remove your underskirts.  I’ll have my knife ready to slit it into strips.”

While the two moving picture girls retired for a moment their father quickly explained their plan.

“And you may have our skirts, too,” said Miss Pennington.  “Only mine is of such thin material—­”