December, 1918 
FOREST AND STREAM 
689 
big job ahead. They must soon strike up the man¬ 
grove-bordered rivers, into No Man’s Land around 
Big Cypress. They must make friends with the Sem¬ 
inole, and paddle across phantom lakes out of White 
Water Bay, or pole the coughing ’gator from his 
hidden lair deep in the mangrove thicket. 
That impudent little launch was destined to put-put 
above the last resting place of buried treasure... 
chests of ill-gotten pirate gold, or lost pearl argosies 
of the early galleons of Spain. And Mr. King’s sa¬ 
cred diary would ere long bristle with strange short¬ 
hand diagrams and hieroglyphics of his trade. No, 
there could be no idling. Tropic storms might spring 
up, in an endless chain of Gulf tempest, and they 
were not equipped to fight such odds. 
Making sure that the boat astern was ship-shape 
and that the engine had weathered the night mists 
and would give them no trouble, they were off at six 
thirty. Key Largo lay to their left, a twenty-five 
mile stretch of sand and stunted growth, with here 
and there a dilapidated shack. 
“They have tried lime growing on Largo,” said Mr. 
King to John, “but the fruit is of poor quality, due to 
an abominable soil. The limestone foundation does 
not encourage groves. The Key is populated principally 
by negroes and I wouldn’t call it the most ideal spot in 
the world for a Sunday school picnic. There are some 
hammocks—far more picturesque if less habitable.” 
There were strings of these irregular islands, dap¬ 
pling the sandy shores of Largo, like giant lichens or 
colored buttons, upon the smooth water. Red vines 
were massed and matted over the trees, and sea fowl 
nested there in countless legion. Clumps of bays 
made the hammocks unusually attractive, and, as the 
Mae edged in nearer, John saw crawfish about their 
roots.. .great shifting armies of them. As the sun 
grew warmer, mosquitoes ventured forth, although 
there had been no hint of them that night. The man¬ 
groves were everywhere in'evidence; gnarled, twist¬ 
ed, profuse of shiny, corrugated 
root, and weighted down by moss 
and clinging scarlet vines. 
T HEY were taking what is 
known as The “Coastal Ca¬ 
nal” route, much in favor by 
fishing expeditions, al¬ 
though the sand bars 
are numerous and the reefs of jagged rock treacher¬ 
ously frequent. Hendry could not be persuaded to 
take his eye from the course, and his wheel—not even 
to answer John’s incessant flow of aquatic questions. 
By eleven, they had come within view of the famous 
Overseas Railway, as the Extension swung smartly 
out from Everglade and made a bold run for the 
little supporting keys and Jewfish proper. 
The immense arches, the formidable masonry, built 
under such difficulties and traversing such a marvel¬ 
ous territory, seemed to tower high above their heads, 
for Card Sound had been navigated and they had gone 
through Steamboat Creek, where once the asthmatic 
Miami boat was a Largo trade mark. It was high 
noon when the Mae reached Jewfish. Barnes Sound 
was spectacular in its regetta dress of fishing craft. 
Hendry dodged in and out among them, occasionally 
swearing at a swarthy Porto Rican, who ran his lit¬ 
tle fishing smack to suit his own convenience. 
“Perhaps on our way back we will give you a taste 
of fishing in Steamboat Creek,” suggested Mr. King, 
“the mosquitoes are apt to bother a bit, but if the 
wind blows them out o^f range, this is a wonderful 
place. For one thing, the tides do not interfere with 
the day’s sport. Mangrove snappers and groupers 
there are in plenty—prime fellows! Then there are 
cavalle, grunts, sea trout, bonefish, turbot, parrot-fish 
and porgies. 
“I have seen mullet caught there on the shallows 
about small islands, and, at the entrance to the middle 
creek, in deep water, the snappers bite as fast as you 
can toss over your line. The water is so clear, how¬ 
ever, that after the first catch or two, it is necessary 
to move to another locality.. .they are wise in their 
generation. By the way, it’s the home of the festive 
fiddler. You need never lack for bait.” 
“It looks mighty good in here,” observed John 
eagerly. 
The Mae had entered Jewfish Creek, at the south¬ 
ernmost end of Barnes Sound. On both sides grew 
bays and mangroves in profusion. 
“It’s only a half mile,” his father answered, “then 
we come to Black Water Bay. See.. .the water is not 
clear now. I venture to say that Hendry could land 
a dozen snappers or groupers in a jiffy if we could 
stop. It is best to go in a small boat up near 
shore, as the fish seem to favor the cool 
shadowy hollows under the mangrove 
roots and there it is easy to take them.” 
