153 I learn of flamingos and hurricanes 



settled down to wait. Thursday and Friday came and went, but 

 no sign of the Ramorut R. Then, on Saturday morning, a sail ap- 

 peared beyond the small cays outside the harbor, and after a few 

 minutes Forsyth pronounced it to be Rodney's boat. He knew 

 her by her rig, and also by the obvious need for new patches here 

 and there on the big mains'l. Rodney, a jaunty yachting cap on 

 his graying head, a briar in his teeth, and bare of foot, was soon 

 alongside, holding up some choice-looking melons for our approval 

 and grinning broadly. "Rodney, you scamp," shouted Forsyth, 

 "do you know we've been waiting here for more than two days?" 

 "I'm not even sure what day i'tis-s," said Rodney, unabashed, 

 "but I must say, Mr. Forsyth, you couldn't 'ave waited in a nicer 

 place, now, could you?" "You see," grumbled Forsyth, turning to 

 me with a twinkle in his eye, "sheer blarney, just as I warned you." 

 Rodney took no notice, being occupied in cutting up a melon for 

 us to sample. It was delicious. 



That evening we set sail, taking with us young Rodney and an 

 effusive colored gentleman from the nearby Negro settlement of 

 Murphytown, which had been built by the government on a high 

 bluff so as to be out of reach of hurricane waves. Cameron Happy 

 Montour was a one-time flamingo watchman for the local com- 

 missioner, and he had recommended himself to us as the local 

 expert on these birds and as an experienced pilot for our passage 

 through the intricacies of The Marls. It had not been mentioned 

 that he was also a self-styled authority on Holy Writ, a tireless 

 discourser on every question under the sun, and, barring the sub- 

 ject of flamingos, a complete fraud. We stopped along the coast 

 to pick up Montour's "flamingo boat," a homemade contraption 

 of the size and appearance of a coffin. We lay off the steep rocks 

 of the shore while the flamingo expert, who had walked the few 

 miles up the beach to join us, launched his strange craft and 

 paddled furiously toward us. As he drew near he began shouting 

 lustily for a rope end. "She fillin' fas'! She fillin' fas'!" he yelled. 

 "Rope! Rope! Heave me a rope! Good Lord, sen' me a rope!" In 

 spite of this bit of dramatics, he was alongside in another half 

 minute, still well afloat, and still talking. We were much amused, 

 especially Forsyth, who has a well-deserved reputation as a boat 



