"If you had a shark on the hook, my dear," said I, "you would have no
doubt upon the subject."
"It would be a splendid thing to catch the first one," she said, "and
there must be lots of them in here, for we have seen their back fins so
often."
I was about to answer this remark when I began to walk out into the
water. I did not at the time know exactly why I did this, but it seemed
as if some one had taken me by the hand and was leading me into the
depths. But the water splashing above my ankles and a scream from
Euphemia made me drop the line, which immediately spun out to its full
length, making the stake creak and move in the sand.
"Goodness gracious!" cried Euphemia, her face pale as the beach. "Isn't
it horrible? We've got one!"
"Horrible!" I cried. "Didn't you want to get one?" and seizing the axe,
which lay near by, I drove the stake deep down into the sand. "Now it
will hold him!" I cried. "He can't pull that out!"
"But how are we to pull him in?" exclaimed Euphemia. "This line is as
tight as a guitar-string."
This was true. I took hold of the rope, but could make no impression on
it. Suddenly it slackened in my hand.
"Hurrah!" I cried, "we may have him yet! But we must play him."
"Play him!" exclaimed Euphemia. "You can never play a huge creature
like that. Let me go and call some of the others to help."
"No, no!" I said. "Perhaps we can do it all by ourselves. Wind the line
quickly around the top of the stake as I pull it in."
Euphemia knelt down and rapidly wound several yards of the slack cord
around the stake. In a few moments it tightened again, jerking itself
out of my hand.
"There, now!" said Euphemia. "He is off again! You can never haul him
in, now."
"Just wait," I said. "When he finds that he cannot break away he rushes
toward shore, trying to bite the line above the chain. Then I must haul
it in and you must wind it up. If you and I and the shark continue to
act in this way, perhaps, after a time, we may get him into shallow
water. But don't scream or shout. I don't want the others to know
anything about it."
Sure enough, in a minute or two the line slackened again, when it was
rapidly drawn in and wound around the stake.
"There he is!" exclaimed Euphemia. "I can see him just under the water,
out there."
The dark form of the shark, appearing at first like the shadow of a
little cloud, could be seen near the surface, about fifteen yards away.
Then his back fin rose, his tail splashed violently for an instant, and
he disappeared. Again the line was loosened, and again the slack was
hauled in and wound up. This was repeated, I don't know how many times,
when suddenly the shark in his desperation rushed into shallow water
and grounded himself. He would have floundered off in a few moments,
however, had we not quickly tightened the line. Now we could see him
plainly. He was eight or nine feet long and struggled violently,
exciting Euphemia so much that it was only by clapping her hand over
her mouth that she prevented herself from screaming. I would have
pulled the shark farther in shore, but this was impossible, and it was
needless to expect him to move himself into shallower water. So,
quickly rolling up my trousers, I seized the axe and waded in toward
the floundering creature.
"You needn't be afraid to go right up to him," said Euphemia. "So long
as he don't turn over on his back he can't bite you."
I had heard this bit of natural history before, but, nevertheless, I
went no nearer to the shark than was necessary in order to whack him
over the head with the axe. This I did several times, with such effect
that he soon became a dead shark.
When I came out triumphant, Euphemia seized me in her arms and kissed
me.
"This is perfectly splendid!" she said. "Who can show as big a fish as
this one? None of the others can ever crow over you again."
"Until one of them catches a bigger shark," I said.
"Which none of them ever will," said Euphemia, decidedly. "It isn't in
them."
The boatman was now seen approaching in his boat to take the party back
to camp, and the "crew," having returned to his duty, was sent off in a
state of absolute amazement to tell the others to come and look at our
prize. Our achievement certainly created a sensation. Even the boatman
could find no words to express his astonishment. He waded in and
fastened a rope to the shark's tail, and then we all took hold and
hauled the great fish ashore.
"What is the good of it now you have got it?" asked Quee.
"Glory is some good!" exclaimed Euphemia.
"And I'm going to have you a belt made from a strip of its skin," I
said.
This seemed to Euphemia a capital idea. She would be delighted to have
such a trophy of our deed, and the boatman was set to work to cut a
suitable strip from the fish. And this belt, having been properly
tanned, lined, and fitted with buckles, is now one of her favorite
adornments, and cost, I am bound to add, about three times as much as
any handsome leathern belt to be bought in the stores.
Every day the Paying Teller, his wife, and Quee carefully set down in
their note-books the weight of fish each individual had caught, with
all necessary details and specifications relating thereunto; every day
we wandered on the beach, or explored the tropical recesses of the
palmetto woods; every evening the boatman rowed over to the light-house
to have a bit of gossip, and to take thither the fish we did not need;
every day the sun was soft and warm, and the sky was blue; and every
morning, going oceanward, and every evening, going landward, seven
pelicans flew slowly by our camp.
My greatest desire at this time was to shoot a pelican, to have him
properly prepared, and to take him to Rudder Grange, where, suitably
set up, with his wings spread out, full seven feet from tip to tip, he
would be a grand trophy and reminder of these Indian River days. This
was the reason why, nearly every morning and every evening, I took a
shot at these seven pelicans. But I never hit one of them. We had only
a shot-gun, and the pelicans flew at a precautionary distance; but,
being such big birds, they always looked to me much nearer than they
were. Euphemia earnestly desired that I should have a pelican, and
although she always wished I should hit one of these, she was always
glad when I did not.
"Think how mournful it would be," she said, "if they should take their
accustomed flights, morning and evening, with one of their number
missing."
"Repeating Wordsworth's verses, I suppose," remarked the little
teacher.
I had been disappointed in the number of pelicans we had seen. I knew
that Florida was one of the homes of the pelican, and I had not
expected to see these birds merely in small detachments. But our
boatman assured me that on our return trip he would give me a chance of
seeing and shooting as many pelicans as I could desire. We would
touch at Pelican Island, which was inhabited entirely by these birds,
and whence the parties of seven were evidently sent out.
When we had had all the fishing we wanted, we broke up our camp, and
started northward. We had all been very happy and contented during our
ten days' sojourn in this delightful place; but when at last our
departure was determined upon, the Paying Teller became possessed with
a wild desire to go, go, go. There was some reason, never explained nor
fully expressed, why no day, hour, minute, or second should be lost in
speeding to the far Northwest. The boatman, too, impelled by what
impulse I know not, seemed equally anxious to get home. As for the
Paying Teller's "group," it always did exactly as he wished. Therefore,
although Euphemia and I would have been glad to linger here and there
upon our homeward way, we could not gainsay the desire of the majority
of the party, and consequently we sailed northward as fast as wind and
sometimes oars would take us.
Only one cause for delay seemed tolerable to the Paying Teller. This
was to stop at every post-office. We had received but one mail while in
camp, which had been brought in a sail-boat from an office twenty miles
away. But the Paying Teller had given and written the most intricate
and complex directions for the retention or forwarding of his mail to
every postmaster in the country we had passed through, and these
directions, as we afterward found, had so puzzled and unsettled the
minds of these postmasters that for several weeks his letters had been
moving like shuttlecocks up and down the St. John's and Indian
rivers--never stopping anywhere, never being delivered, but crossing
and recrossing each other as if they were imbued with their owner's
desire to go, go, go. Some of the post-offices where we stopped were
lonely little buildings with no other habitation near. These we usually
found shut up, being opened only on mail-days, and in such cases
nothing could be done but to slip a protesting postal into the little
slit in the wall apparently intended for letters. Whether these postals
were eaten by rats or read by the P.M.'s, we never discovered. Wherever
an office was found open, we left behind us an irate postmaster
breathing all sorts of contemplated vengeance upon the disturbers of
his peace. We heard of letters that had been sent north and sent south,
but there never were any at the particular place where we happened to
be, and I suppose that the accumulated mail of the Paying Teller may
for several years drop gradually upon him through the meshes of the
Dead-Letter Office.
There were a great many points of interest which we had passed on our
downward trip, the boatman assuring us that, with the wind we had, and
which might cease at any moment, the great object was to reach Jupiter
as soon as possible, and that we would stop at the interesting places
on the way up. But now the wind, according to his reasoning, made it
necessary that we should again push forward as fast as we could; and,
as I said before, the irresistible attraction of the Northwest so
worked upon the Paying Teller that he was willing to pause nowhere,
during the daytime, but at a post-office. At one place, however, I was
determined to land. This was Pelican Island. The boatman, paying no
attention to his promise to stop here and give me an opportunity to
shoot one of these birds, declared, when near the place, that it would
never do, with such a wind, to drop anchor for a trifle like a pelican.
The Paying Teller and Quee also strongly objected to a stop; and, while
the teacher had a great desire to investigate the subject of
ornithology, especially when exemplified by such a subject as a
pelican, she felt herself obliged to be loyal to her "group," and so
quietly gave her voice to go on. But I, supported by Euphemia, remained
so firm that we anchored a short distance from Pelican Island.
None of the others had any desire to go ashore, and so I, with the gun
and Euphemia, took the boat and rowed to the island. While we were here
the others determined to sail to the opposite side of the river to look
for a little post-office, the existence of which the boatman had not
mentioned until it had been determined to make this stoppage here.
As we approached the island we saw hundreds of pelicans, some flying
about, some sitting on trunks and branches of dead trees, and some
waddling about on the shore.
"You might as well shoot two of them," said Euphemia, "and then we
will select the better one to take to Rudder Grange."
The island was very boggy and muddy, and, before I had found a good
place to land, and had taken up the gun from the bow of the boat, every
pelican in sight took wing and flew away. I stood up and fired both
barrels at the retreating flock. They swerved and flew oceanward, but
not one of them fell. I helped Euphemia on shore, and then, gun in
hand, I made my way as well as I could to the other end of the island.
There might be some deaf old fellows left who had not made up their
minds to fly. The ground was very muddy, and drift-wood and under-brush
obstructed my way. Still, I pressed on, and went nearly half around the
island, finding, however, not a single pelican.
Soon I heard Euphemia's voice, calling loud. She seemed to be about the
centre of the island, and I ran toward her.
"I've got one!" I heard her cry, before I came in sight of her. She was
sitting at the root of a crooked, dead tree. In front of her she held,
one hand grasping each leg, what seemed to me to be an ungainly and
wingless goose. All about her the ground was soft and boggy. Her
clothes were muddy, her face was red, and the creature she held was
struggling violently.
"What on earth have you got?" I exclaimed, approaching as near as I
could, "and how did you get out there?"
"Don't you come any closer!" she cried. "You'll sink up to your waist!
I got here by treading on the little hummocks and holding on to that
dead branch; but don't you take hold of it, for you'll break it off,
and then I can't get back."
"But what is that thing?" I repeated.
"It's a young pelican," she replied. "I found a lot of nests on the
ground over there, and this was in one of them. I chased it all about,
until it flopped out here and hid itself on the other side of this
tree. Then I came out quietly and caught it. But how am I going to get
it to you?"
This seemed, indeed, a problem. Euphemia declared that she needed both
hands to work her way back by the means of the long, horizontal limb
which had assisted her passage to the place where she sat, and she also
needed both hands to hold her prize. It was likewise plain that I could
not get to her. Indeed, I could not see how her light steps had taken
her over the soft and marshy ground that lay between us. I suggested
that she should throw the pelican to me. This she declined to do.
"I could never throw it so far," she said, "and it would surely get
away. I don't want to lose this pelican, for I believe it is the last
one on the island. If there are other young ones, they have scuttled
off by this time, and I should dreadfully hate to go back to the yacht
without any pelican at all."
"I don't call that much of one," I said.
"It's a real pelican for all that," she replied, "and about as curious
a bird as I ever saw. Its wings won't stretch out seven feet, to be
sure."
"About seven inches," I suggested.
"But it is a great deal easier to carry a young one like this," she
persisted, "and I expect a baby pelican is a much more uncommon sight
in the North than a grown one."
"No doubt of it," I said. "We must keep him now you've got him. Can't
you kill him?"
"I've no way of killing him," returned Euphemia. "I wonder if you could
shoot him if I were to hold him out."
This, with a shot-gun, I positively declined to do. Even if I had had a
rifle, I suggested that she might swerve. For a few moments we remained
nonplussed. I could not get to Euphemia at all, and she could not get
to me unless she released her bird, and this she was determined not to
do.
"Euphemia," I said, presently, "the ground seems hard a little way in
front of you. If you step over there, I will go out on this strip,
which seems pretty solid. Then I'll be near enough to you for you to
swing the bird to me, and I'll catch hold of him."
Euphemia arose and did as I told her, and we soon found ourselves about
six feet apart. She took the bird by one leg and swung it toward me.
With outstretched arm I caught it by the other foot, but as I did so I
noticed that Euphemia was growing shorter, and also felt myself sinking
in the bog. Instantly I entreated Euphemia to stand perfectly still,
for, if we struggled or moved, there was no knowing into what more
dreadful depths we might get. Euphemia obeyed me, and stood quite
still, but I could feel that she clutched the pelican with desperate
vigor.
"How much farther down do you think we shall sink?" she asked, her
voice trembling a little.
"Not much farther," I said. "I am sure there is firm ground beneath us,
but it will not do to move. If we should fall down, we might not be
able to get up again."
"How glad I am," she said, "that we are not entirely separated, even if
it is only a baby pelican that joins us!"
"Indeed, I am glad!" I said, giving the warm pressure to the pelican's
leg that I would have given to Euphemia's hand, if I could have reached
her. Euphemia looked up at me so confidently that I could but believe
that in some magnetic way that pressure had been transmitted through
the bird.
"Do you think they will come back?" she said, directly.
"Oh, yes," I replied, "there's no manner of doubt of that."
"They'll be dreadfully cross," she said.
"I shouldn't wonder," I replied. "But it makes very little difference
to me whether they are or not."
"It ought to make a difference to you," said Euphemia. "They might
injure us very much."
"If they tried anything of the kind," I replied, "they'd find it worse
for them than for us."
"That is boasting," said Euphemia, a little reproachfully, "and it
does not sound like you."