FOREST AND STREAM 
397 
August, 1919 
sleepless vigils of the 
shore and hammock 
which make the tropic - - 
night so musical. ' 
There was no moon. A 
single lantern, suspended 
astern, provided the one 
spark of life in all this vast 
expanse of night and wilder- 
ness. 
Over in the direction of 
the nearest bay and man- 
grove hammock, the quick 
eyes of the surveyor-sports- 
man detected a glint of light. 
It flashed, it glowed, it 
seemed to blink at him with 
sinister intent. But of 
greater moment was the un- 
deniable fact that it was ap- 
proaching — coming nearer 
every second, as he watched. 
For fully five breathless 
minutes Mr. King did not 
move. His gaze was concen- 
trated on that infinitesimal 
glow across the still waters of Chevelie 
Bay. Now it could not be more than tei 
yards distant, and steadily shorteninj 
the span between boat and mainland 
Thoughts crowded in upon the man oi 
deck; they had been absent from thi 
Mae for two days, both Shark River anc 
Chokoloskee sent envoys up to Chevelier 
even the Indians were there with a pur 
pose, and visitors were never welcome 
Every soul on board could be murderec 
and the boats rot down to the water’s 
edge up that far West Coast water path 
W HILE the camp fire was being 
lighted under the bays, there was 
a sudden whirr of great wings 
and a big blue heron swooped down, al- 
most on ,top of the busy campers. That 
very tree was obviously its roosting place 
and it did not intend to allow mere man 
and a wreath of smoke to interfere with 
its accustomed habits. It was such a 
gorgeous specimen that John shot it and 
later on prepared it for his specimen box. 
This incident was' enlivened by one 
even more significant at dawn, after all 
hands had spent a rather restless night. 
Despite the nets, mosquitoes and crawl- 
ing things of all kinds managed to keep 
the party hustling. 
Hendry was scouting back in the ham- 
mock, when he called to the others to 
come quickly. They discovered him bend- 
ing over a pitiful white object in the 
brush. It was a bird of large size. 
“Egret — lady egret,” the guide grunt- 
ed, “somebody shoot wing — see?” and he 
held up a limp mass of dirt-soiled feath- 
ers. 
Mr. King spent a half hour examin- 
ing the beautiful specimen and they later 
put it to death, that its sulfering might 
be over. The wing had been shattered 
by buck-shot! 
Little was said at the time, but John 
and his father exchanged glances and 
their thoughts turned back to those 
posted streams, beyond whose blockade 
of fallen trees no stranger was supposed 
to go. 
Down the Sweetwater they cruised, 
immediately after breakfast and upon 
entering Chevelier Bay decided to work 
in and out through the maze of small 
wooded islands, keeping always to the 
eastward. The silence was what im- 
pressed them most — that strange, un- 
canny silence, and the solitude of mile 
after mile of luxuriantly foliaged water- 
ways. The water was too shallow, for 
the most part, to do any fishing, for they 
poled the small boats between mainland 
and fringes of bay hammocks, where 
there was barely enough, at this tide, to 
make progress possible. 
“I feel like another Robinson Crusoe,” 
T he camp managed to have a laugh 
at Mr. King’s expense and it came 
about in this way: After the oth- 
ers had retired, the “Big Chief” went 
out on the deck of the Mae for a last 
smoke. The air was heavy with the 
perfume of orchids and flowering shrubs. 
Countless birds along shore, which at 
one point was not more than fifty feet 
distant, had finally composed themselves 
and had left the serenading to giant 
frogs, the croaking ’gators and other 
John exclaimed to his father, as herons 
darted up from the projecting stumps 
and ’gators slid off into murky pools, 
“You’d scarcely think that man had ever 
traversed these waters before.” 
“You may safely put yourself down 
as a juvenile Henry M. Stanley, of this 
part of Florida,” his father retorted 
“even the Indians, I fancy, do not take 
the trouble to rummage around here and 
I am fairly certain that the Watsons, 
in their most active days, never went so 
far from the easier, beaten canoe trails. 
But tomorrow. Son, we shall know the 
real truth about our Chokoloskee 
rumors.” 
“What do you mean?” the boy de- 
manded, looking up quickly. 
“Be patient .... you will see.” 
It was four of the clock P. M. when 
they poled over to where the larger boats 
had been left. 
En route, Hendry and John had been 
unable to resist the temptation of in- 
numerable oyster reefs and bars and, 
for their part, they were content to make 
a supper entirely of splendid, big bi- 
valves, roasted until the muddy shells 
yawned. 
