The Silver King 



the pine woods, to Sarasota Bay, arriving 

 at The Palms, the charming little hotel 

 built by good Mother Jones, who is now in 

 Heaven. I enjoyed one of her matchless 

 suppers after my drive through the rain 

 and in the face of the fierce norther. 



I found that the shanty of Captain Faulk- interviewing 

 ner, who had charge of the pound net, was 

 adjoining the hotel grounds. I interviewed 

 him that evening, when he promised to go 

 out to the net the next afternoon if the wind 

 abated. As I knew that the northers of 

 Florida lasted several days, and my time 

 was limited, I replied that I would visit the 

 net the next day. 



On the next afternoon the norther was The Start for 



11 j .1 i_* i_ TV the Pound Net 



in full force and the sea running high. It 

 required a good deal of persuasion for 

 Faulkner to consent, but fortunately he 

 yielded at last to my entreaties. We em- 

 barked in a sixteen-foot rowboat Faulk- 

 ner, a white man, a negro, and myself. 

 The net was two miles down the bay. The 

 wind was behind us, so we were soon there, 

 drenched with spray, and quite cold. 



