THE ROLLING STONE.
The announcement so placidly made by Mr. John Brewer that it was
impossible for our friends to get up the river until some of the
sail-boats or small sloops--the only craft which then navigated that
stream--should come down and go up again, gave rather a doleful hue to
the state of affairs.
Mr. Brewer stated that when a boat came down that far, she generally
went all the way to Jupiter Inlet before she returned, and some of the
big ones, when they got down there, went outside, and made a trip to
Lake Worth, and they would, of course, be still longer coming back.
The spirits of the boys were a good deal depressed, but Adam did not
give up his hope that they might get passage on the mail-boat.
“We can stow ourselves somewhere,” he said, “and when we get to Fort
Capron, we’re likely to find a boat that’ll take us the rest of the
way.”
But when, an hour after, the mail-boat came in sight, even Adam’s hopes
were crushed. It was not larger than a row-boat, with a small sail, and
a cabin not three feet high, and besides the young man who sailed her,
she already contained two passengers,--a sportsman who was returning
north and a negro boy. There was no room for the latter to sit in the
after-part of the vessel, and he had to make himself as comfortable as
he could on the little bit of deck in front of the mast.
It was so obviously plain that four additional passengers could not get
on board that little boat that the subject was not even broached, Adam
confining himself to inquiries in regard to the possibilities of there
being other boats down the river of which Mr. Brewer had not heard.
But the mail-carrier assured him that there were no boats down there
that could come up inside of a week, and the sportsman declared that he
never would have squeezed himself inside this little tub if there had
been any other chance of his getting up the river.
There was only one relief afforded by the mail-boat. The boys,
anticipating that they might not be able to go on themselves, had each
written a letter to his family, telling where he was, and giving a
brief history of the state of affairs. Each letter, written on rumpled
stationery supplied by Mr. Brewer, contained assurances of the perfect
safety of the writer, and a request for money to be forwarded to
Jacksonville, Florida, which point they hoped to reach in good time.
These, with money for the postage, were given to the carrier, who
promised to have them properly mailed at the first post-office on the
river.
A telegram was also written and given to the sporting gentleman, who
promised to forward it as soon as he reached Sanford, on the St. John’s
River, this being the nearest point from which telegrams could be sent.
“There, now,” said Chap, when the little boat had sailed away, “I feel
more comfortable. The folks will know all about us just as soon as if
we had gone on ourselves, and that’s the main thing; for, as far as I’m
concerned, I’m in no particular hurry to get home.”
“You don’t want to stay here, do you?” asked Phœnix.
“No,” said Chap; “but we can tramp along and camp out for a while, till
a boat comes by and takes us on. I don’t want any better fun than that.”
“We can’t tramp much farther on this beach,” said Phil. “It only
reaches about a mile above us, Mr. Brewer says, and tramping and
camping for a week or two, with no paths to walk in and nothing to eat,
would be pretty tough work.”
“We could push back to the sea-shore,” said Chap, “and walk along
there.”
“That might do as far as the walking is concerned,” said Phœnix; “but
how about the victuals?”
“I’m not quartermaster,” said Chap, “I’m captain; and I’ll lead you
fellows anywhere you want to go.”
“That’s the way to talk,” said Phil; “but it won’t do to lead us to any
place so far from this house that we can’t hear them call at mealtime.
We can’t live straight along on fish, you know.”
A few minutes after this conversation, Adam Guy walked up to Mr.
Brewer, who was leaning on the fence of his little garden.
“Look here, John Brewer!” he cried; “what did you mean by sayin’ that
we couldn’t get a boat to go up the river in? In that little creek back
there, there’s a boat plenty big enough for us. Don’t she belong to
you?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Brewer, “she’s mine, but her mast’s unshipped, and her
main-sail’s in the house to be mended.”
“Can’t we ship the mast and mend the sail?” asked Adam.
“Yes, you might do that,” answered Mr. Brewer.
“Well, then,” cried Adam, “we’re all right! She doesn’t leak, does
she? And you’ll hire her to us, won’t you?”
“Her hull’s all right,” said Mr. John Brewer, “and I reckon I’d hire
her to you.”
“And why didn’t you tell us about her before?” exclaimed Adam.
“You didn’t say anything about my hirin’ you a boat,” said the other.
“If you’d ’a’ asked me, I’d ’a’ said you could have her.”
Adam’s shouts soon brought the boys together, and a bargain was
speedily concluded with Mr. Brewer, who agreed to hire his boat to our
party for a dollar a day.
“That is, till we reach Titusville,” said Adam; “but how are we goin’
to get her back?”
“Well,” said Mr. Brewer, “my brother went up to Enterprise last week,
and he’ll be comin’ back afore long, and it’ll suit him fust-rate if
you’ll leave the boat at Titusville, and then he can come down in her
and save payin’ his passage on the mail-boat.”
“That’s a pretty good arrangement for you and your brother,” said Chap.
“I wonder you didn’t think of it before!”
“I didn’t want to bother anybody to take a boat up the river jist for
my brother,” said Mr. Brewer.
Everybody now went gayly to work, Adam mending the sail with true
sailor-like skill, and the boys, under Mr. Brewer’s direction, and
with some of his assistance, getting the mast properly shipped and the
boat cleaned out and made ready for her voyage.
She was a well-built little craft, about twenty feet long, and with
a small cabin, which would comfortably accommodate four persons. She
carried a main-sail and a jib, and was, altogether, very suitable for
the purposes of our friends.
By night the boat was ready for the trip, but it was decided to
postpone starting until the next morning. All the provisions which Mr.
Brewer could spare were purchased, and, although he could not let them
have enough to last the three or four days which it would require to
reach Titusville, there were places along the river where they could
replenish their stores.
Mr. Brewer knew Adam for a good sailor, and had no hesitancy in
trusting the boat to his care.
The boys were perfectly delighted at the prospect before them. To sail
up the river in a boat which was entirely their own during the voyage
was a piece of good fortune they had not dreamed of.
“What is the name of your boat?” asked Chap of Mr. Brewer, as they all
sat together after supper.
“Just now she ain’t got no name. She used to be called the Jane P.,
after my first wife; but when she died I painted the name out, and
this Mrs. Brewer don’t want the boat named after her, because she’s
afraid she might die too; so, you see, she ain’t got no name.”
“Well, then,” cried Chap, “we can name her ourselves--can’t we?”
“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Brewer, “you can call her what you please, so long
as you don’t name her after Mrs. Brewer.”
The boys heartily agreed to this restriction, and a variety of names
was now proposed; but after a time, the boys concluded that a title
suggested by Phœnix was the jolliest and most suitable name for their
boat, and they agreed to call her “The Rolling Stone.”
“That’s a mighty queer name for a boat,” said Mr. Brewer. “It seems
like it would sink her.”
“But you needn’t keep it after we’ve done with her,” said Phil.
“I don’t think I will,” said Mr. Brewer.
And Adam, who had declared the name decidedly un-nautical and with
something of an unlucky sound about it, said that after all he reckoned
it didn’t matter much what the boat’s name was, provided they had a
good wind.
The next morning, after an early breakfast, provisions and a small keg
of fresh water were put aboard; the baggage of the voyagers was safely
stowed away; a double-barrelled gun, which had been hired of Mr.
Brewer, was hung on a couple of little hooks inside the cabin, with the
powder-flask and shot-pouch gracefully dangling beneath it; our party
got on board, the sails were run up, and with a parting cheer to Mr.
Brewer and three of his children, who stood on the bank of the little
creek, and to Mrs. Brewer and the other child, who looked out from
behind a half-opened shutter, The Rolling Stone was brought around to
the wind, and sailed away on a long tack up the Indian River.
[Illustration]