December, 1918 
FOREST AND STREAM 
691 
Fishing down through the keys brings no day of disappointment. The old 
camera was kept constantly clicking Fisherman’s Proof 
its life. 
Squatting at the far 
side of the enclosure 
was a one-room shack, 
fully as desolate as its 
environment. And a man sat upon a log, 
smoking. He wore dirty clothes. As if kin 
to the garden, all that was best in him had 
run to seed. With uncut hair, a fuzzy 
beard and ragged garments, the solitude of 
that bleak bit of Largo, amongst the Man¬ 
groves, had unmistakably cast a blight—a 
blight that would nev^r be remedied. This 
man did not possess enough energy to more 
than nod and grunt, as Hendry called to 
him. By the light of the oil lamp, as a 
dicker was made for some very shabby 
tomatoes, John saw that there was just 
the flicker of Youth in the eyes that were 
so dead and spiritless beneath their shaggy 
brows. 
And, all the way back, under the lower¬ 
ing sky, the boy was silent. He had 
thought it out for himself. Hendry had 
done this thing for a definite reason—stu¬ 
pid, dull, uneducated Henry. He had re¬ 
membered John’s remark—the desire to 
leave civilization and town and worry be¬ 
hind and live forever in a little shack on 
Key Largo. 
“I know him,” the Guide muttered, “he 
a Swede. Ran away from Key West. 
Come here. Two years on Largo. When 
I first stop, he was boy, like you—big boy— 
nice face—laugh much. All time by self 
and fish, not good.” 
****** 
Morning brought a confirmation of Mr. 
King’s fears. It was still cloudy and small 
white-caps leaped and danced in through 
the two Snake Creek passages. Hendry 
was for going on, however, and the Mae 
now turned her nose from Largo and the 
ocean, the spray whipping boisterously at 
her keel and at times fairly smothering the 
power boat that dragged behind. 
They wound laboriously in and around 
the perilous channels, reefs and coral heads 
—past Rabbit Key, Jones, Man of War, 
Rush and finally to the left of the clirster 
of Oyster Keys that nestled for shelter in 
the lap of Cape Sable. 
It was cold now-—strangely cold. They 
drew on their coats and reached for tar¬ 
paulins. Big Sandy Key could be seen 
through sheets of slanting rain. By Mr. 
King’s orders, the Mae was anchored under 
the lee of East Cape, Cape Sable at five 
o’clock, and everything battened down for 
the night. 
After a hot supper, Mr. King set to work 
on his maps and John surrendered to fa¬ 
tigue in his bunk. But he did not sleep just 
yet. From where he reclined, he could see 
Hendry, hands hooked over knees, a par¬ 
ticularly villainous pipe clenched between 
his teeth. Somewhere tucked beneath that 
rough exterior was a very large heart and 
an uncanny knowledge of life in general. 
John saw, for a moment, the uncouth fig¬ 
ure on Largo—and home seemed suddenly 
sweet. 
As for Hendry—once and once only, he 
turned; his big head swivelling on massive 
shoulders and circled by a halo of pipe 
smoke—turned and deliberately winked at 
John, without a change of expression. 
****** 
With the dawn,- it had cleared. East 
Cape AVas glorified by its deluge of rain 
and the gulls were out in circling, talkative 
squadrons. 
Mr. King was beginning to display active 
interest in their course. He was approach¬ 
ing the first entrance to a land that was 
new to him—new to the world. The gate¬ 
way was just around Cape Sable and up 
the mystic bosom of White Water Bay. 
The Mae did remarkably well. She Avas 
gliding into the mouth of Shark River at 
twelve sharp. 
Here the eye finds much to delight. To 
the south is Shark River and to the north 
the broad, beautiful Harney. Between 
them, and reaching upward as far as the 
Everglades, for many miles, is a fantastic 
aggregation of Mangrove Islands, with 
their hundreds of lagoons and intersecting 
channels. They form a sort of crazy-quilt 
of densely woven root thickets, where 
much game abounds and where even a 
glade skiff could not travel. 
John Jr. was forever throwing over a line 
At the far extrem¬ 
ity of these islands,, 
grouped in White- 
Water Bay, is famous; 
Lake Tarpon, the re¬ 
treat of the shrewd fisherman who makes ai 
month’s trip of it, and takes his sport seri¬ 
ously. All of this was new to John and 
to his Father. Nor had Hendry ever ven¬ 
tured around into the Gulf. ’Glades and 
Indians he knew well, but fate had never 
ordained that his journeys should take him 
up White Water. How well Hendry ac¬ 
climated himself we shall shortly see. And 
how Hendry’s intimate friendship with the 
Seminole saved many an awkward situa¬ 
tion forms still another exciting chapter. 
There is a Tannic Acid Works on the 
right bank of Shark River, about three- 
fourths of a mile from the mouth. In this 
primitive place, the roughest of rough men 
collect mangrove bark from which the acid 
is eventually made. A brief landing was 
made at the crude dock and Mr. King chat- 
ted with several of the workers. ' 
Yes, deer, could be found up beyond the 
lake. There were many wildcats. Tarpon 
were running fine! There was “all kinds 
of still water fishing”—how about Choko- 
loskee? Many shakes of the head and 
knitting of brows-^no good for anyone. 
Rumor had brought many tales of rene¬ 
gades of the mangrove thickets—there had 
been impudent posting of creeks-—no white 
man was wanted in that region—even the 
bark-gatherers were afraid to venture A^ery 
far into the interior. A pair of innocent 
fishermen from one of the southern states 
had defied these posted notices. Their 
canoe had drifted back but the men them¬ 
selves were never seen again. And there 
was egret-piracy—yes—all agreed to this. 
Egrets were being shot in defiance of all 
law. Nobody cared to question the deed. 
Chokoloskee was “Bad Ground.” But now 
they ware on the outer rim of good game 
country, a fact to which the guide’s Semi¬ 
nole friends had often testified. Fishing 
tackle could be laid aside for a while. 
The possibility of getting deer appealed 
to both Mr. King and Hendry and a fling 
at Tarpon was another lure. So they con¬ 
tinued on up Shark River and struck their 
first camp ashore a little before sundown* 
on the wonderful banks of Lake Tarpon. 
For an hour, that night, by the friendly 
light of the roaring camp fire, Hendry pol¬ 
ished and oiled his rifle. Perhaps he was 
thinking of other things than game! 
(to be continued next month) 
