The sun shone warm and soft, as it shines in winter time in the
semi-tropics. The wind blew strong, as it blows whenever and wherever
it listeth. Seven pelicans labored slowly through the air. A flock of
ducks rose from the surface of the river. A school of mullet, disturbed
by a shark, or some other unscrupulous pursuer, sprang suddenly out of
the water just before us, and fell into it again like the splashing of
a sudden shower.
I lay upon the roof of the cabin of a little yacht. Euphemia stood
below, her feet upon the mess-chest, and her elbows resting on the edge
of the cabin roof. A sudden squall would have unshipped her; still, if
one would be happy, there are risks that must be assumed. At the open
entrance of the cabin, busily writing on a hanging-shelf that served as
a table, sat a Paying Teller. On the high box which during most of the
day covered our stove was a little lady, writing in a note-book. On the
forward deck, at the foot of the mast, sat a young man in a state of
placidness. His feet stuck out on the bowsprit, while his mildly
contemplative eyes went forth unto the roundabout.
At the tiller stood our guide and boatman, his sombre eye steady on the
south-by-east. Around the horizon of his countenance there spread a
dark and six-days' beard, like a slowly rising thunder-cloud; ever and
anon there was a gleam of white teeth, like a bright break in the sky,
but it meant nothing. During all our trip, the sun never shone in that
face. It never stormed, but it was always cloudy. But he was the best
boatman on those waters, and when he stood at the helm we knew we
sailed secure. We wanted a man familiar with storms and squalls, and if
this familiarity had developed into facial sympathy, it mattered not.
We could attend to our own sunshine. At his feet sat humbly his boy of
twelve, whom we called "the crew." He was making fancy knots in a bit
of rope. This and the occupation of growing up were the only labors in
which he willingly engaged.
Euphemia and I had left Rudder Grange, to spend a month or two in
Florida, and we were now on a little sloop-yacht on the bright waters
of the Indian River. It must not be supposed that, because we had a
Paying Teller with us, we had set up a floating bank. With this Paying
Teller, from a distant State, we had made acquaintance on our first
entrance into Florida. He was travelling in what Euphemia called "a
group," which consisted of his wife,--the little lady with the
note-book,--the contemplative young man on the forward deck, and
himself.
This Paying Teller had worked so hard and so rapidly at his business
for several years, and had paid out so much of his health and strength,
that it was necessary for him to receive large deposits of these
essentials before he could go to work again. But the peculiar habits of
his profession never left him. He was continually paying out something.
If you presented a conversational check to him in the way of a remark,
he would, figuratively speaking, immediately jump to his little window
and proceed to cash it, sometimes astonishing you by the amount of
small change he would spread out before you.
When he heard of our intention to cruise on Indian River he wished to
join his group to our party, and as he was a good fellow we were glad
to have him do so. His wife had been, or was still, a schoolteacher.
Her bright and cheerful face glistened with information.
The contemplative young man was a distant connection of the Teller, and
his first name being Quincy, was commonly called Quee. If he had wanted
to know any of the many things the little teacher wished to tell he
would have been a happy youth; but his contemplation seldom
crystallized into a knowledge of what he did want to know.
"And how can I," she once said to Euphemia and myself, "be expected
ever to offer him any light when he can never bring himself to actually
roll up a question?"
This was said while I was rolling a cigarette.
The group was greatly given to writing in journals, and making
estimates. Euphemia and I did little of this, as it was our holiday,
but it was often pleasant to see the work going on. The business in
which the Paying Teller was now engaged was the writing of his journal,
and his wife held a pencil in her kidded fingers and a little
blank-book on her knees.
This was our first day upon the river.
"Where are we?" asked Euphemia. "I know we are on the Indian River, but
where is the Indian River?"
"It is here," I said.
"But where is here?" reiterated Euphemia.
"There are only three places in the world," said the teacher, looking
up from her book,--"here, there, and we don't know where. Every spot on
earth is in one or the other of those three places."
"As far as I am concerned," said Euphemia, "the Indian River is in the
last place."
"Then we must hasten to take it out," said the teacher, and she dived
into the cabin, soon reappearing with a folding map of Florida. "Here,"
she said, "do you see that wide river running along part of the
Atlantic coast of the State, and extending down as far as Jupiter
Inlet? That is Indian River, and we are on it. Its chief
characteristics are that it is not a river, but an arm of the sea, and
that it is full of fish."
"It seems to me to be so full," said I, "that there is not room for
them all--that is, if we are to judge by the way the mullet jump out."
"I think," said the teacher, making a spot with her pencil on the map,
"that just now we are about here."
"It is the first time," said Euphemia, "that I ever looked upon an
unknown region on the map, and felt I was there."
Our plans for travel and living were very simple. We had provided
ourselves on starting with provisions for several weeks, and while on
the river we cooked and ate on board our little vessel. When we reached
Jupiter Inlet we intended to go into camp. Every night we anchored near
the shore. Euphemia and I occupied the cabin of the boat; a tent was
pitched on shore for the Teller and his wife; there was another tent
for the captain and his boy, and this was shared by the contemplative
young man.
Our second night on the river was tinged with incident. We had come to
anchor near a small settlement, and our craft had been moored to a rude
wharf. About the middle of the night a wind-storm arose, and Euphemia
and I were awakened by the bumping of the boat against the wharf-posts.
Through the open end of the cabin I could see that the night was very
dark, and I began to consider the question whether or not it would be
necessary for me to get up, much preferring, however, that the wind
should go down. Before I had made up my mind we heard a step on the
cabin above us, and then a quick and hurried tramping. I put my head
out of the little window by me, and cried--
"Who's there?"