spattered and unkempt. The _ black 
earth was caked on his legs. 
“Go to Miami?” I persisted. 
He nodded. 
““WW7ON’T you have something else to 
eat?” was my next query, “we 
have bacon and tinned meat and limp- 
kin.” 
Again a shake of the head. 
“What you do here?” Tommy Tiger 
said suddenly, and he was looking up, 
first at me and then at Sonnyboy, with 
a suggestion of furtive suspicion in his 
dark, smoldering eyes. 
“Just came out for a night on a ham- 
mock,” I replied with perfect frank- 
ness; “thought we might ’gators and 
maybe run into a deer or two—or a 
‘cat. It’s my boy's first trip here ~~ - 
he had never been into the ’Glades. 
Too far back to attempt to make the 
canal again, before dark. We have 
blankets and pup tents. . . we’re used 
to being out this way.” 
I thought I saw a look of relief in 
his expression, and it was at this very 
moment I put two and two together. 
Tommy was an egret-plume runner. 
He had made a long trip across from 
Lossman’s, part of the way by ’Glade 
skiff no doubt, and, after putting it in 
safe cache, miles to the westward, had 
negotiated the remainder of the dis- 
tance on foot. For it is on the Gulf 
side that you find the rookeries, and 
it is well worth any man’s peril to 
bring a blouseful of precious feathers 
into so likely a rendezvous as Miami. 
It’s being done right along, but it isn’t 
mentioned in polite society. It is a 
form of high-priced bootleggery, which 
was in vogue long before the first rum- 
runner. 
“Camp Indian camp one time 
here?” I suggested, sweeping a hand to 
left and right. Our surroundings were 
spectral in the firelight, and now more 
than ever, because of the deluge of 
darkness which had come upon us as if 
dropped from an immense caldron. 
Tommy Tiger followed my hand, in 
the circle it made. 
“No more stay this place,’ was his 
answer, “chief die. People no come 
back: ... Po-ya-fits- a!” (Indians’ 
heaven.) 
“Then it’s all right for us to stay 
here, under shelter, in the clearing, for 
to-night?” 
The same half wistful disinterest. 
“No-chit-pay-lon-es-chay (Lie down 
and sleep). Youdo. I no say. I come 
from other people—other village.” 
HICH was Seminole for: “Go as 
far as you please; it’s none of my 
business.” 
As it proved, Tommy Tiger had no 
wish to tarry long nor to intrude his 
presence, beyond the taking of the 
slight snack of food and a momentary 
rest. He had stumbled upon our camp 
quite by accident en route to Miami, 
and the darkness knew no terrors for 
him. With that same dignity which is 
characteristic of them all, he at last 
rose and silently went his way, stopping 
only for a second to wave his hand. The 
other hand, I noted with amusement, 
rested unconsciously upon his blouse, at 
a place where it bulged suspiciously. 
“Gee!” was all Sonnyboy could gasp 
when we were quite alone. “Gee!” 
But I had noticed one other thing 
which Tommy Tiger had done, and 
there came cause, later on, to remember 
it, small as it seemed then. At parting, 
Tommy Tiger had looked carefully at 
the fire, had even used his muck-crusted 
toes to shove some hot coals back to the 
hot center of the logs, where they met 
at a common point. 
WE cooked a heartening meal, what 
with our remaining stores and the 
fowl we had bagged on our long hike 
across the hammock, and consumed 
every morsel of it. Then came two 
hours of friendly talk. I wondered then 
—and I wonder now—if a father ever 
gets to really know his boy, until they 
have been placed in a like place or posi- 
tion. The outside world seemed so ut- 
terly shut off—there were just the two 
of us in an immeasurably great void! 
Be it the Everglades, or a camp any- 
where on earth, solitude breeds a deeper 
companionship, a more profoundly serti- 
ous understanding. You can grow to 
love a companion very dearly under 
these circumstances, and the hammock 
night brought Sonnyboy so spiritually 
near to me that our two hearts, I think, 
were beating as one that memorable 
hour or so. 
I told him what I knew of the Indians 
—of the tragedy that inexorably con- 
fronted them—of the few stragglers, in 
their hidden villages, to which white 
men had not as yet ventured and which, 
for a few years, might still remain in- 
vulnerable. I told him of the repeated 
efforts made by our Government to 
solve this grim problem, of the little 
bands collected at the Miami station: 
tickets purchased and homelands prom- 
ised far away, and of the last-minute 
melting away of those Indians, just at 
the second when the conductor was call- 
ing “All-aboard!” I told him of what 
a vast distance lay between the Semi- 
noles one sees in Miami, and those 
families and tribes which have stead- 
fastly refused to come out into the 
open. I told him of the final vision 
which flared fitfully on the horizon, of 
great highways to the Gulf, and farms 
springing up, and cities where there 
was only desolation and mystery, and 
the muck. 
T is one of the most dramatic epi- 
sodes of American history, although 
so few of us know about it, understand 
its true significance; so painfully few 
even know what is going on! Man, con- 
quering uncharted miles, swamp and 
desolation, and bringing it to fruitful 
blossom. Man bringing a new thing to 
life, while an age-old thing fades and 
dies! There is pathos in all this, aside 
from its adventure. 
We set up our individual pup tents 
beneath a rickety thatched remnant of 
lodge-house, and, wrapped in blankets, 
sought needed rest and sleep. The logs 
had been “pointed up,” to assure fire 
until well into the night, when I could 
repeat the operation, and its cheerful 
radiance threw a glimmer and glow 
around the ghostly confines of the 
clearing. 
Of sounds there were many: the 
very pronounced dark and guttural 
croak of the alligators down on the 
“wet side’ of the hammock; the occa- 
sional calls of birds; a rustle, as turtles 
crawled under masses of dry leaves and 
twigs; and, unceasingly present, the lap- 
of those warm waters up the little 
beach of white sand, and through the 
million organ pipes of the saw grass. 
Once—just onec—an unearthly whine 
or growl or semi-human moan sounded 
from deep in the heart of the ham- 
mock’s jungle. It was a wild cat. 
Sonnyboy’s muffled voice came to my 
ears as I was losing’ consciousness. 
Wrapped like a mummy in his blanket, 
it was all I could do to make out what 
he said: 
“Father, are you awake?” 
“To be sure.” 
“Tt’ll be a long while—after this time 
—when we can go out together, won’t 
ie 
“Why?” 
“Well—because—I’m going away to 
college. It won’t be so easy to get 
away. There’s lots and lots of work to 
do—you know how it is.” 
I could not answer him at once. 
Finally I found myself replying: 
“Yes—yes—I know how it is.” 
“But we’ve had some bully old adven- 
tures, haven’t we, father?” 
“Wonderful!” 
“And are you sure—are you very 
sure, I haven’t been in the way?” 
“There couldn’t be anything surer, 
son.” 
NOTHER pause, this one lasting 
for many minutes. Then his drowsy 
voice, coming from a great distance it 
seemed to me: 
“T said my prayers for mother. I 
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