Flossie Bobbsey, who had been sitting on the cleanest and dryest log she could find near the edge of the stream to watch Freddie wade, jumped up as she heard him cry.  She had been wishing she was with him, white stockings or none.

“Oh, Freddie, what’s the matter?” she cried.  “What’s happened?”

“I ­I’m caught!” he answered.  “Can’t you see I’m caught?”

“But how?” she questioned eagerly.  “You aren’t caught in a trap like Snap was, are you?”

“No, it isn’t a trap ­it’s sticky mud,” Freddie said.  “My feet are stuck in the mud!”

“Oh ­oh!” said Flossie, and a queer look came over her face.  “You are stuck in the mud!  How did you do it, Freddie?”

“I didn’t do it!  It did it!  I just stepped in a soft place, and now when I pull one foot out the other sticks in deeper.  Can’t you help me out, Flossie?”

“Yes, I’ll help you out!” she cried, and she ran down to the edge of the stream, as though she intended to wade out to where poor Freddie was trying to pull his feet loose from the sticky mud.

“Oh, don’t come in!  Don’t come in!” cried Freddie, waving her back with his hand.  “You’ll be stuck, too!”

Flossie stood still on the edge of the little brook.  She looked at Freddie, who was in the middle of the stream, too far out for Flossie to reach with her outstretched hands, though she tried to do so.

“Can’t you pull your feet out?” she asked.

“Nope!” answered Freddie.  “I can’t, for I’ve tried.  As soon as I get one foot up a little way the other goes down in deeper.”

“Then I’ll go and call mamma!”

“No, don’t do that!” begged Freddie.  “Maybe if you would get a long stick, Flossie, and hold it out to me, I could sort of pull myself out.”

“Oh, I know.  It’s like the picture in my story book of the boy who fell through the ice, and his sister held out a long pole to him and he pulled himself out.  Wait a minute, Freddie, and I’ll get the stick.  I’m glad you didn’t fall through the ice, though, ’cause you’d get cold maybe.”

“This water is nice and warm,” said Freddie.  “But I don’t like the mud I’m stuck in, ’cause it makes me feel so tickly between the toes.”

“I’ll help you out,” said Flossie.  “Wait a minute.”

She searched about on the bank until she found a long smooth branch of a tree.  Holding to one end of this she held the other end out to her brother.  Freddie had to turn half around to get hold of it as his back was toward Flossie, and she could not cross the brook.

“Now hold tight!” cried the little boy.  “I’m going to pull!”

Flossie braced her feet in the sand on the bank of the brook and her brother began to pull himself out of the mud.  His feet had sunk down to quite a depth, and when he first pulled he made Flossie slide along the ground until she cried: 

“Oh, Freddie, you’re going to make me stuck, too!  Don’t pull me into the water!”

Freddie stopped just in time, with the toes of Flossie’s shoes almost in the water.

“Did you pull loose a little bit?” she asked.

“Yes, a little.  But I don’t want to pull you in, Flossie.  If you could only hold on to a tree or a rock, then I wouldn’t drag you along.”

“Maybe I can hold to this tree,” and Flossie pointed to one near by.  “If I can stretch my arms I can reach it.”

“Look for a longer tree branch to hold out to me,” said Freddie, and when his sister had found this she could reach one end to her brother, keep the other end in her right hand, and with her left arm hold on to a small tree.  The tree braced Flossie against being pulled along the bank, and when next Freddie tried, he dragged his feet and legs safely from the sticky mud, and could wade out on the hard, gravelly bottom of the brook.

“I guess that was a mud hole where some fish used to live,” said the little fellow, as he came ashore, a little bit frightened by what had happened.

“Your feet are all muddy,” said Flossie, “and you are all wet around your knees.”

“Oh, that’ll dry,” said Freddie.  “And I can wash the mud off my feet.  It was awful sticky.”

It certainly seemed to be, for it took quite a while to wash it off his bare feet and legs, though he stood for some time in the brook, where there was a white, pebbly bottom, and used bunches of moss for a bath sponge.

But at last Freddie’s legs were clean, though they were quite red from having been rubbed so hard with the moss-sponge.  Flossie, too, having helped her brother scrub himself, had gotten some water on her shoes and stockings, and a little mud, too.

“But we can walk through places where the grass is high,” said Freddie, “and that will brush the mud off, and the sun will dry your stockin’s same as it will my pants.”

“And we’ll keep on calling for Snoop,” said Flossie.

Freddie having put on his stockings and shoes, the two children set out again, wandering here and there, calling for the black cat.  But either he did not hear them or he would not answer, and when, after an hour or two, they got back to camp, they had not found their pet.

“Where have you two been?” asked Mrs. Bobbsey.  “I was just getting anxious about you.”

“We’ve been looking for Snoop,” said Flossie.

“And I went in wadin’ an’ got stuck in the mud, and my pants got a little wet, and Flossie’s shoes and stockin’s got wet an’ muddy, but we waded in tall grass and we’re not very muddy now,” said Freddie, all out of breath, but anxious to get the worst over with at once.

“Oh, you shouldn’t have gone in wading!” cried Mrs. Bobbsey.

“You didn’t tell me not to ­not to-day you didn’t tell me,” Freddie defended himself.

“No, because I didn’t think you’d do such a thing,” replied his mother.  “I can’t tell you every day the different things you mustn’t do ­there are too many of them.”

“But there are so many things we can do too ­oh, just lots of them.”

“Yes, and the things we may do and the things we’re not to do are just awful hard to tell apart sometimes, Momsie,” put in Flossie.

“Yes’m, they are,” added Freddie.  “And how is a feller and his sister to know every single time what they’re to do and what they’re not to do?”

“Suppose you try stopping before you do a thing to ask yourselves whether you ought to do it or not, and not wait until after the thing is done to ask yourselves that question,” suggested Mrs. Bobbsey.  “That might help some.”

“Well, I won’t go wading any more to-day,” promised the little fellow.  “But I didn’t think I’d get stuck in the mud.”

Mrs. Bobbsey wanted to laugh, but she did not dare let the two small twins see her, for they would think it only fun, and really they ought not to have gotten wet and muddy.

“And so you couldn’t find Snoop,” remarked Mr. Bobbsey at supper that night.  “Well, it’s too bad.  I guess I’ll have to get you another dog and cat.”

“No, don’t ­just yet, please,” said Nan.  “Maybe we’ll find our own, and we never could love any new ones as we love Snap and Snoop.”

“Nope, we couldn’t!” declared Flossie, while Freddie nodded his head in agreement with her.

“But you could get us some new go-around bugs,” the little girl went on.  “We haven’t found ours yet.”

“That’s so,” remarked Mr. Bobbsey.  “It’s queer where they went to.  Well, I’ll see if I can get any more, though I may have to send to New York.  But you two little ones must not go off by yourselves again, looking for Snoop.”

“Could we go to look for Snap?” asked Freddie, as if that was different.

“No, not for Snap either.  You must stay around camp unless some one goes with you to the woods.”

It was a few days after this, when Mrs. Bobbsey, with the four twins, went out to pick blueberries, that they met a number of women and children who also had baskets and pails.  But none of them was filled with the fruit which, now, was at its best.

“What is the matter with the berries?” asked Mrs. Bobbsey.  “We have been able to pick only a few.  The bushes seem to have been cleaned of all the ripe ones.”

“That’s what they have,” said Blueberry Tom, who was with the other pickers.  “And it’s the gypsies who’s gettin’ the berries, too.”

“Are you sure?” asked Mrs. Bobbsey.  “We haven’t seen any gypsies on the island.”

“They don’t stay here all the while,” said Tom.  “They have their camp over on the main shore, and they row here and get the berries when they’re ripest.  That’s why there ain’t any for us ­the gypsies get ’em before we have a chance.  They’re pickin’ blueberries as soon as it’s light enough to see.”

“Well, I suppose they have as much right to them as we have,” said Mrs. Bobbsey.  “But I would like to get enough for some pies.”

“I can show you where there are more than there are around here,” offered Tom.  “It’s a little far to walk, though.”

“Well, we’re not tired, for we just came out,” said Mrs. Bobbsey.  “So if you’ll take us there, Tom, we’ll be very thankful.”

“Come on,” said the boy, whose face was once more covered with blue stains.  “I’ll show you.”

The other berry pickers, who did not believe Tom knew of a better place, said they would stay where they were, and, perhaps, by hard work they might fill their pails or baskets, and so Tom and the Bobbseys went off by themselves.

Tom, indeed, seemed to know where, on the island, was one spot where grew the largest and sweetest blueberries, and the gypsies, if the members of the tribe did come to gather the fruit, seemed to have passed by this place.

“Oh, what lots of them!” cried Bert, as he saw the laden bushes.

“Yes, there’s more than I thought,” said Tom.  “I’ll get my basket full here all right.”

Soon all were picking, though Flossie and Freddie may have put into their mouths as many as went in their two baskets.  But their mother did not expect them to gather much fruit.

They had picked enough for several pies, and Mrs. Bobbsey was looking about for the two smaller twins who had wandered off a little way, when she heard Flossie scream.

“What is it?” asked her mother quickly.  “Is it a snake?” and she started to run toward her little girl.

“Maybe she’s stuck in the mud, as Freddie was!” exclaimed Bert.

“Mamma!  Mamma!” cried Flossie.  “Come and get me!”

“She ­she’s all tangled up in a net!” cried the voice of Freddie.  “Oh, come here!”

Mrs. Bobbsey, Nan, Bert and Tom ran toward the sound of the children’s voices.