398 
FOREST AND STREAM 
August, 1919 
without the facts becoming known. 
Tip-toeing down to Hendry, he awak- 
ened the guide and tDgether they re- 
turned to the deck, with their rifles. By 
this time, the gleaming dot of light was 
scarcely ten feet from the stern of the 
Mae. 
“Maybe ’gator,” whispered Hendry. 
Mr. King aimed his rifle. 
“Who is it — halt!” he cried. 
But just then the guide broke into a 
hearty laugh, which brought the others 
pell mell out on deck. With that, Hen- 
dry reached alongside with one of the 
poles. There was a metallic clink as he 
deposited something at Mr. King’s feet. 
“An old meat tin!” was his abashed 
exclamation. 
It was then that the good-natured 
c impers engaged in a fusilade of banter. 
“Nothing like a night watchman on 
the job,” John grinned, “just suppose 
that awful thing had climbed aboard and 
bitten one of us.” 
“The incident is of scientific value at 
any rate,” his father parried, “it shows 
that there is practically no variation of 
water up in the bay, yet there is four 
feet of tide in the ocean, outside, and 
six inches in Chevelier as it works up 
Chatham Bend River. That milk or 
meat tin was thrown overboard by me 
at this place exactly two days ago, and 
here it is. But go back to bed you 
minstrel troupers. If a boa constrictor 
clambers aboard some night I will not 
fire a shot.” 
B efore the sun was up an hour, 
they were all out on the open bay, 
trolling for tarpon. Hendry had 
agreed that there were fine ones in Chev- 
elier at this likely and somewhat deeper 
spot. Their two new-found companions 
tried it alone, in their own dory, while 
Hendry and John used the motor boat. 
Mr. King was less interested in fishing 
than in a further study of soil and vege- 
tation. 
The results were less gratifying to 
the original party than misrht have been 
desired. For Roy and the red-bearded 
stranger, after a fight that lasted over 
on hour, finally landed a magnificent tar- 
pon. Hendry and John caught nothing. 
The guide claims to this day that it was 
fate and the boomerang effects of lend- 
ing one’s favorite “lucky” line to “poor 
white trash.” Roy had borrowed Hen- 
dry’s pet outfit — and that was what hurt 
the most. 
Mr. King called them in at eleven and 
stores were put in the small boats again 
for another run down the bay. It will 
be noted that on these expeditions the 
strangers were invariably urged to come 
along. Mr. King, while he was begin- 
ning to trust the newcomers was un- 
willing to leave them alone on the Mae. 
Why tempt fate? 
They followed the west bank of the 
bay, passing through several little in- 
lets, straits and channels between the 
many islands, and at the expiration of 
an hear, had come to the southernmost 
end of Chevelier. Here a channel led 
further southward between stately lines 
of bay and mangrove, over which masses 
of morning glory vine were draped. It 
was a rarely beautiful stretch of narrow 
passage that suddenly opened upon a 
little fairyland bay, with water some 
four feet deep and crystal clear. 
This place was a natural playground 
and feeding rendezvous for ducks and 
coots. As the boats glided out of the 
passage and into the open area their 
occupants made no attempt to conceal 
their surprise. Hundreds of ducks were 
either waddling along the marshy shores 
or resting upon the cool, shaded breast 
of what seemed to be a baby Chevelier 
Bay. Before his father could check him, 
for Mr. King had reasons of his own for 
not wanting to shoot, John had blazed 
away with a shot gun, and the lagoon 
echoed to a thousand thundering rever- 
berations. 
“Poor shot,” the boy growled, as Hen- 
dry shrugged his shoulders, “not a single 
kill and only one duck that felt the force 
of my argument. I’ll get that beauty or 
know the reason why.” 
His father was with him in the glade 
boat and he poled rapidly across the 
tranquil waters in the direction of shore, 
where, in a patch of lilies and grass, a 
fluttering object was discernable. This 
had unexpected results. The moment the 
pole and the skiff struck the shallower 
water, there was a vigorous commotion 
on all sides. 
“Alligators!” was John’s shout. 
“Their holes and nest-mounds must be 
in this vicinity,” said his father, “guess 
you’d better give up the duck-hunt. The 
bird is doubtless inside one of those ugly 
fellows by this time in any event. This 
is no place for us or for a light glade 
skiff.” 
No less than thirty ’gators- of all sizes 
were counted and Mr. King managed to 
kill one with a well-aimed rifle shot. The 
specimen was four feet long and Hendry 
skinned it on shore, with all hands watch- 
ing those nimble, experienced fingers of 
his. (The mounted alligator brought 
(CONTINUED ON PAGE 422 ) 
Fresh meat in camp means that outdoor appetites will at last be wholly satisfied. 
