210 
April, 1918 
E VEN bears lose their 
bearing! A roar of 
laughter came from Cat- 
low and King Jr. as a rum- 
pled-up bundle of kicking, 
wriggling, scratching activity 
went pell mell through the 
scrub cabbage palms, as if projected from 
a field piece. 
The cinnamon bear, in his surprise and 
haste, had caught one foot in a nest of 
vines, and tripped. Sure-pawed, as a rule, 
the close quarters had thrown him off his 
guard. Moreover, as it was unquestion¬ 
ably the same bear that Catlow had been 
worrying with ever since the previous day, 
the animal was on the defensive. 
“He’s been hiding back of the magnolia 
clumps!” Catlow cried, “I knew we’d get 
him. That cinnamon was created for us. 
Fate brought him over the log portage, 
onto the Island. It’s almost a shame to 
shoot him—I’m tempted to round him up 
and put a ring through his nose.” 
The bear was in a most uncomfortable 
and humiliating situation. He had rolled 
over and over in the vines, only to take 
a header into a particularly marshy strip 
not far from where the decayed trees had 
created a picturesque suspension bridge. 
The muck gummed up his hind feet, 
daubed his thick coat, and continued to 
grow worse, with every frantic effort to 
extricate himself. , 
He was as fine a specimen as the party 
had ever seen. 
“Young enough to be as sweet as a pork 
chop!” observed King Jr., smacking his 
lips. “I can taste that fellow, as Chef 
takes him from the fire. Here goes!” 
He raised hrs rifle but Catlow beat him 
to it. 
“Mine,” interjected the boy, “that baby 
was tagged and set aside for me yester¬ 
day.” And Catlow was an experienced 
marksman. Despite the floundering move¬ 
ments of the mired cinnamon, the aim was 
true and Mr. Bear settled back into the 
muck. 
The three rigged up logs and branches 
and a thatch of saw grass and, after much 
mussy work, hauled their game up on dry 
ground. The black mud had daubed him 
over rather more than was desirable, but 
Mr. King, with a sharp knife, was soon 
after bear steaks. He welcomed the ad¬ 
dition to their larder far more than he 
cared to remark at the time. A formid¬ 
able package of bear meat was arranged, 
Catlow having promptly offered his shirt 
as a container. 
Further reconnoitering was unnecessary. 
The island proved to be a small one and 
nothing additional developed, to suggest 
that the Seminoles had paid recent visits 
By W. LIVINGSTON LARNED 
Illustrations by the Author 
Part Five of "Lost in the Ever¬ 
glades.” A true story of the King 
expedition into the Florida water- 
wastes—the last unexplored country 
in the United States .— [Editors]. 
to their one-time camp. The party stopped 
on the opposite side of their log bridge 
and had a last, thoughtful glance at the 
pathetic Indian remnants. That wee grave 
under the custard apples and myrtles was 
not without its significance. 
Once they lost the trail through the un¬ 
dergrowth of the main Ridge, but it was 
productive of interest, for they came upon 
an alligator nest, deep-buried in the grass. 
The covering was shrewdly managed and 
Mother ’Gator might well have had human 
hands in the execution of her work. For 
yards around the grass was padded down. 
Then there was an area of thick, over¬ 
hanging branches, leaves, twigs and crawl¬ 
ers. Under this, the nest proper had been 
concealed, its long, oval eggs 
tucked from sight. There 
were eighteen of them, to¬ 
gether with fragments of 
brown-colored shell, showing 
that there had been one hatch¬ 
ing. 
What are THESE?” demanded Catlow, 
as he lifted several much smaller eggs 
from the nest. 
“Terrapin,” Mr. King answered, “that’s 
a pet scheme of the little rascals. They 
are far too lazy and indifferent to build 
nests of their own. After Mother ’Gator 
has started on an exploring expedition, the 
terrapin discovers the nice warm nest and 
decides that it will do quite nicely, thank 
you.” 
Simplified housekeeping,” suggested 
Catlow, with a grin. 
It was dark when Camp Magnolia was 
reached, and the adventurers agreed that 
while it had been a pleasant day, it had 
been an extremely tiring one. King Jr. 
found it necessary to doctor his hands, 
for the swinging use of the Machete had 
cut and slashed his fingers. 
Chef King did himself proud when it 
came to bear steak for supper. A great 
fire was built and soon the aromatic spice 
of a royal meal was adrift on the breeze. 
And never did steak taste better. As the 
boys energetically agreed, nothing that the 
big East Coast hotels could offer, from 
pampered menus and extravagant kitchens, 
could compare with this wonderful spread 
under the softly stirring myrtles and mag¬ 
nolias. 
A storm had threatened, but by eight 
o’clock the stars were out, and even blan¬ 
kets were unnecessary. Some vagrant 
zephyr from Big Cypress Swamp blew 
o\ er a few mosquitoes, of prodigious size 
and hunger, but nets spread over faces and 
hands fought them off successfully. 
“I’ve just been thinking,” said a mur¬ 
muring voice in the darkness, a half hour 
after all had turned in. 
.“Why not try sleeping instead?” grunted 
his chum. It was Catlow, sleepless and 
ruminative. 
“Things look pretty dry to me out there 
in the sloughs,” he continued, “even more 
so than when we came through. The ca¬ 
nals and the dry spell are having an effect. 
Don t suppose we 11 have trouble getting 
home, do you?” 
Air. King was on the point of answering. 
HE had been thinking, too. “Go to sleep, 
Catlow,” he ordered, however, “I wouldn’t 
worry until we must. Remember—we push 
on some miles tomorrow and there are 
the last stakes to find. You boys will need 
your rest.” 
Camp Magnolia was dismantled at six 
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