FLORIDA AND THE WEST INDIES 77 



It was blazing hot down here in the South, this 

 last Saturday of April, and, having gathered from 

 my communicative fellow-traveller that the only 

 regular boat for the island must have left early that 

 morning and that there would be no other until the 

 Monday, I resolved to be extravagant and charter 

 an oil-launch to take me over, which might, he 

 thought, cost as much as twelve dollars. Yet 

 better, I thought, fifty shillings out of pocket and 

 my journey ended that night than fifty hours of 

 Punta Gorda, hardly a gay resort at the best of 

 times, and now sunk in the inanity of its summer 

 slumber, with all the tourists fled North and only 

 desultory natives loafing in the doorways of its one 

 street. Such was the picture that had been drawn 

 for me of Punta Gorda out of season, and it more 

 than justified its reputation. 



To be stranded in such a backwater over the 

 Sunday and perhaps miss a day's tarpon-fishing 

 into the bargain seemed dear at the economy 

 effected and a very half-hearted way of starting my 

 campaign against the herring, and I at once made 

 inquiries of the gigantic negro who led the way 

 to the baggage van about a launch. There it was 

 that I made the agreeable discovery anticipated in 

 the course of this narrative. I raved at the nigger, 

 who grinned, and I raved at the baggage-clerk, 

 who, though no more to blame in the matter than 

 myself, took my upbraiding with the meekness of a 

 Trappist. Three weeks later, indeed, he heaped 

 coals of fire on my head by holding up the train for 

 several minutes until I and my trunks were safely 

 stored on board, en route for Port Tampa. 



And now followed a wretched day of smothered 



