THE RUDDER GRANGERS ABROAD AND OTHER STORIES




BY

FRANK R. STOCKTON


1891, 1894





CONTENTS.


  I. EUPHEMIA AMONG THE PELICANS
 II. THE RUDDER GRANGERS IN ENGLAND
III. POMONA'S DAUGHTER
 IV. DERELICT
  V. THE BAKER OF BARNBURY
 VI. THE WATER-DEVIL




EUPHEMIA AMONG THE PELICANS.


The sun shone warm and soft, as it shines in winter time in the
semi-tropics. The wind blew strong, as it blows whenever and wherever
it listeth. Seven pelicans labored slowly through the air. A flock of
ducks rose from the surface of the river. A school of mullet, disturbed
by a shark, or some other unscrupulous pursuer, sprang suddenly out of
the water just before us, and fell into it again like the splashing of
a sudden shower.

I lay upon the roof of the cabin of a little yacht. Euphemia stood
below, her feet upon the mess-chest, and her elbows resting on the edge
of the cabin roof. A sudden squall would have unshipped her; still, if
one would be happy, there are risks that must be assumed. At the open
entrance of the cabin, busily writing on a hanging-shelf that served as
a table, sat a Paying Teller. On the high box which during most of the
day covered our stove was a little lady, writing in a note-book. On the
forward deck, at the foot of the mast, sat a young man in a state of
placidness. His feet stuck out on the bowsprit, while his mildly
contemplative eyes went forth unto the roundabout.

At the tiller stood our guide and boatman, his sombre eye steady on the
south-by-east. Around the horizon of his countenance there spread a
dark and six-days' beard, like a slowly rising thunder-cloud; ever and
anon there was a gleam of white teeth, like a bright break in the sky,
but it meant nothing. During all our trip, the sun never shone in that
face. It never stormed, but it was always cloudy. But he was the best
boatman on those waters, and when he stood at the helm we knew we
sailed secure. We wanted a man familiar with storms and squalls, and if
this familiarity had developed into facial sympathy, it mattered not.
We could attend to our own sunshine. At his feet sat humbly his boy of
twelve, whom we called "the crew." He was making fancy knots in a bit
of rope. This and the occupation of growing up were the only labors in
which he willingly engaged.

Euphemia and I had left Rudder Grange, to spend a month or two in
Florida, and we were now on a little sloop-yacht on the bright waters
of the Indian River. It must not be supposed that, because we had a
Paying Teller with us, we had set up a floating bank. With this Paying
Teller, from a distant State, we had made acquaintance on our first
entrance into Florida. He was travelling in what Euphemia called "a
group," which consisted of his wife,--the little lady with the
note-book,--the contemplative young man on the forward deck, and
himself.

This Paying Teller had worked so hard and so rapidly at his business
for several years, and had paid out so much of his health and strength,
that it was necessary for him to receive large deposits of these
essentials before he could go to work again. But the peculiar habits of
his profession never left him. He was continually paying out something.
If you presented a conversational check to him in the way of a remark,
he would, figuratively speaking, immediately jump to his little window
and proceed to cash it, sometimes astonishing you by the amount of
small change he would spread out before you.

When he heard of our intention to cruise on Indian River he wished to
join his group to our party, and as he was a good fellow we were glad
to have him do so. His wife had been, or was still, a schoolteacher.
Her bright and cheerful face glistened with information.

The contemplative young man was a distant connection of the Teller, and
his first name being Quincy, was commonly called Quee. If he had wanted
to know any of the many things the little teacher wished to tell he
would have been a happy youth; but his  contemplation seldom
crystallized into a knowledge of what he did want to know.

"And how can I," she once said to Euphemia and myself, "be expected
ever to offer him any light when he can never bring himself to actually
roll up a question?"

This was said while I was rolling a cigarette.

The group was greatly given to writing in journals, and making
estimates. Euphemia and I did little of this, as it was our holiday,
but it was often pleasant to see the work going on. The business in
which the Paying Teller was now engaged was the writing of his journal,
and his wife held a pencil in her kidded fingers and a little
blank-book on her knees.

This was our first day upon the river.

"Where are we?" asked Euphemia. "I know we are on the Indian River, but
where is the Indian River?"

"It is here," I said.

"But where is here?" reiterated Euphemia.

"There are only three places in the world," said the teacher, looking
up from her book,--"here, there, and we don't know where. Every spot on
earth is in one or the other of those three places."

"As far as I am concerned," said Euphemia, "the Indian River is in the
last place."

"Then we must hasten to take it out," said the teacher, and she dived
into the cabin, soon reappearing with a folding map of Florida. "Here,"
she said, "do you see that wide river running along part of the
Atlantic coast of the State, and extending down as far as Jupiter
Inlet? That is Indian River, and we are on it. Its chief
characteristics are that it is not a river, but an arm of the sea, and
that it is full of fish."

"It seems to me to be so full," said I, "that there is not room for
them all--that is, if we are to judge by the way the mullet jump out."

"I think," said the teacher, making a spot with her pencil on the map,
"that just now we are about here."

"It is the first time," said Euphemia, "that I ever looked upon an
unknown region on the map, and felt I was there."

Our plans for travel and living were very simple. We had provided
ourselves on starting with provisions for several weeks, and while on
the river we cooked and ate on board our little vessel. When we reached
Jupiter Inlet we intended to go into camp. Every night we anchored near
the shore. Euphemia and I occupied the cabin of the boat; a tent was
pitched on shore for the Teller and his wife; there was another tent
for the captain and his boy, and this was shared by the contemplative
young man.

Our second night on the river was tinged with incident. We had come to
anchor near a small settlement, and our craft had been moored to a rude
wharf. About the middle of the night a wind-storm arose, and Euphemia
and I were awakened by the bumping of the boat against the wharf-posts.
Through the open end of the cabin I could see that the night was very
dark, and I began to consider the question whether or not it would be
necessary for me to get up, much  preferring, however, that the wind
should go down. Before I had made up my mind we heard a step on the
cabin above us, and then a quick and hurried tramping. I put my head
out of the little window by me, and cried--

"Who's there?"

The voice of the boatman replied out of the darkness:--

"She'll bump herself to pieces against this pier! I'm going to tow you
out into the stream." And so he cast us loose, and getting into the
little boat which was fastened to our stern, and always followed us as
a colt its mother, he towed us far out into the stream. There he
anchored us, and rowed away. The bumps now ceased, but the wind still
blew violently, the waves ran high, and the yacht continually wobbled
up and down, tugging and jerking at her anchor. Neither of us was
frightened, but we could not sleep.

"I know nothing can happen," said Euphemia, "for he would not have left
us here if everything had not been all right, but one might as well try
to sleep in a corn-popper as in this bed."

After a while the violent motion ceased, and there was nothing but a
gentle surging up and down.

"I am so glad the wind has lulled," said Euphemia, from the other side
of the centre-board partition which partially divided the cabin.

Although I could still hear the wind blowing strongly outside, I too
was glad that its force had diminished so far that we felt no more the
violent jerking that had disturbed us, and I soon fell asleep.

In the morning, when I awoke, I saw that the sun was shining brightly,
and that a large sea-grape bush was hanging over our stern. I sprang
out of bed, and found that we had run, stern foremost, upon a sandy
beach. About forty feet away, upon the shore, stood two 'possums,
gazing with white, triangular faces upon our stranded craft. Except
these, and some ducks swimming near us, with seven pelicans flying
along on the other side of the river, there was no sign of life within
the range of my sight. I was not long in understanding the situation.
It had not been the lulling of the storm, but the parting of our cable
which had caused the uneasy jerking of our little yacht to cease. We
had been blown I knew not how far down the river, for the storm had
come from the north, and had stranded I knew not where. Taking out my
pocket-compass I found that we were on the eastern shore of the river,
and that the wind had changed completely, and was now blowing, not very
strong, from the southeast. I made up my mind what must be done. We
were probably far from the settlement and the rest of the party, and we
must go back. The wind was in our favor, and I knew I could sail the
boat. I had never sailed a boat in my life, and was only too glad to
have the opportunity, untrammelled by any interference.

I awoke Euphemia and told her what had happened. The two 'possums stood
upon the shore, and listened to our conversation. Euphemia was much
impressed by the whole affair, and for a time said nothing.

"We must sail her back, I suppose," she remarked at length, "but do you
know how to start her?"

"The hardest thing to do is to get her off the beach," I answered, "but
I think I can do that."

I rolled up my trousers, and with bare feet jumped out upon the sand.
The two 'possums retired a little, but still watched my proceedings.
After a great deal of pushing and twisting and lifting, I got the yacht
afloat, and then went on board to set the sail. After much pulling and
tugging, and making myself very warm, I hoisted the main-sail. I did
not trouble myself about the jib, one sail being enough for me to begin
with. As the wind was blowing in the direction in which we wished to
go, I let the sail out until it stood nearly at right angles with the
vessel, and was delighted to see that we immediately began to move
through the water. I took the tiller, and steered gradually toward the
middle of the river. The wind blew steadily, and the yacht moved
bravely on. I was as proud as a man drawn by a conquered lion, and as
happy as one who did not know that conquered lions may turn and rend.
Sometimes the vessel rolled so much that the end of the boom skimmed
the surface of the water, and sometimes the sail gave a little jerk and
flap, but I saw no necessity for changing our course, and kept our bow
pointed steadily up the river. I was delighted that the direction of
the wind enabled me to sail with what might be called a horizontal
deck. Of course, as the boatman afterward informed me, this was the
most dangerous way I could steer, for if the sail should suddenly
"jibe," there would be no knowing what would happen. Euphemia sat near
me, perfectly placid and cheerful, and her absolute  trust in me gave
me renewed confidence and pleasure. "There is one great comfort," she
remarked, as she sat gazing into the water,--"if anything should happen
to the boat, we can get out and walk."

There was force in this remark, for the Indian River in some of its
widest parts is very shallow, and we could now plainly see the bottom,
a few feet below us.

"Is that the reason you have seemed so trustful and content?" I asked.

"That is the reason," said Euphemia. On we went and on, the yacht
seeming sometimes a little restive and impatient, and sometimes rolling
more than I could see any necessity for, but still it proceeded.
Euphemia sat in the shadow of the cabin, serene and thoughtful, and I,
holding the tiller steadily amidship, leaned back and gazed up into the
clear blue sky.

In the midst of my gazing there came a shock that knocked the tiller
out of my hand. Euphemia sprang to her feet and screamed; there were
screams and shouts on the other side of the sail, which seemed to be
wrapping itself about some object I could not see. In an instant
another mast beside our own appeared above the main-sail, and then a
man with a red face jumped on the forward deck. With a quick,
determined  air, and without saying a word, or seeming to care for my
permission, he proceeded to lower our sail; then he stepped up on top
of the cabin, and looking down at me, inquired what in thunder I was
trying to do.

I made no answer, but looked steadily before me. Now that the sail was
down, I could see what had happened. I had collided with a yacht which
we had seen before. It was larger than ours, and contained a
grandfather and a grandmother, a father and a mother, several aunts,
and a great many children. They had started on the river the same day
as ourselves, but did not intend to take so extended a trip as ours was
to be. The whole party was now in the greatest confusion. I did not
understand what they said, nor did I attend to it. I was endeavoring,
for myself, to grasp the situation. Euphemia was calling to me from the
cabin, into which she had retreated; the man was still talking to me
from the cabin roof, and the people in the other boat were vociferating
and screaming; but I paid no attention to any one until I had satisfied
myself that nothing serious had happened. I had not run into them head
on, but had come up diagonally, and the side of our bow had struck the
side of their stern. The collision, as I afterward learned, had
happened in this wise: I had not seen the other boat because, lying
back as I had been, the sail concealed her from me, and they had not
seen us because their boatman was in the forward part of their cabin,
collecting materials for breakfast, and the tiller was left in charge
of one of the boys, who, like all the rest of his party who sat
outside, had discreetly turned his back to the sun.

The grandfather stood up in the stern. He wore a black silk hat, and
carried a heavy grape-vine cane. Unsteadily balancing himself on his
legs, and shaking his cane at me, he cried:--

"What is the meaning of this, sir? Are you trying to drown a whole
family, sir?"

"If he'd run his bowsprit in among you," said the boatman from the
cabin roof, "he'd 'a' killed a lot of you before you'd been drowned."

Euphemia screamed to me to come to her; the father was standing on his
cabin roof, shouting something to me; the women in the other boat were
violently talking among themselves; some of the little children were
crying; the girls were hanging to the ladies, and all the boys were
clambering on board our boat. It was a time of great excitement, and
something must be instantly said by me. My decision was quick.

"Have you any tea?" I said, addressing the old gentleman.

"Tea!" he roared. "What do you mean by that?"

"We have plenty of coffee on board," I answered, "but some of our party
can't drink it. If you have any tea, I should like to borrow some. I
can send it to you when we reach a store."

From every person of the other party came, as in a chorus, the one
word, "Tea?" And Euphemia put her pale face out of the cabin, and said,
in a tone of wondering inquiry, "Tea?"

"Did you bang into us this way to borrow tea?" roared the old
gentleman.

"I did not intend, of course, to strike you so hard," I said, "and I am
sorry I did so, but I should like to borrow some tea."

Euphemia whispered to me:--

"We have tea."

I looked at her, and she locked her lips.

"Of course we can give you some tea, if you want some," said the
red-faced boatman, "but I never heerd of a thing like this since I was
first born, nor ever shall again, I hope."

"I don't want you to give me any tea," I said. "I shall certainly
return it, and a very little will do--just  a handful."

The two boats had not drifted apart, for the father, standing on the
cabin roof, had held tightly to our rigging, and the boatman, still
muttering, went on board his vessel to get the tea. He brought it,
wrapped in a piece of a newspaper.

"Here comes your man," he said, pointing to a little boat which was
approaching us. "We told him we'd look out for you, but we didn't think
you'd come smashing into us like this."

In a few moments our boatman had pulled alongside, his face full of a
dark inquiry. He looked at me for authoritative information.

"I came here," I said to him, "after tea."

"Before breakfast, I should say!" cried the old gentleman. And every
one of his party burst out laughing.

Much was now said, chiefly by the party of the other part, but our
boatman paid little attention to any of it. The boys scrambled on board
their own vessel. We pushed apart, hoisted sail, and were soon speeding
away.

"Good bye!" shouted the father, a genial man. "Let us know if you want
any more groceries, and we'll send them to you."

For six days from our time of starting we sailed down the Indian River.
Sometimes the banks were miles apart, and sometimes they were very near
each other; sometimes we would come upon a solitary house, or little
cluster of dwellings; and then there would be many, many miles of
wooded shore before another human habitation was to be seen. Inland, to
the west, stretched a vast expanse of lonely forest where panthers,
bears, and wild-cats prowled. To the east lay a long strip of land,
through whose tall palmettoes came the roar of the great ocean. The
blue sky sparkled over us every day; now and then we met a little
solitary craft; countless water-fowl were scattered  about on the
surface of the stream; a school of mullet was usually jumping into the
air; an alligator might sometimes be seen steadily swimming across the
river, with only his nose and back exposed; and nearly always, either
to the right or to the left, going north or going south, were seven
pelicans, slowly flopping  through the air.

A portion of the river, far southward, called "The Narrows," presented
a very peculiar scene. The banks were scarcely fifty feet apart, and
yet there were no banks. The river was shut in to the right by the
inland shore, and to the left by a far-reaching island, and yet there
was no inland shore, nor any island to the left. On either side were
great forests of mangrove  trees, standing tiptoe on their myriad
down-dropping  roots, each root midleg in the water. As far as we could
see among the trees, there was no sign of ground of any kind--nothing
but a grotesque network  of roots, on which the forest stood. In this
green-bordered avenue of water, which extended nine or ten miles, the
thick foliage shut out the breeze, and our boatman was obliged to go
ahead in his little boat and tow us along.

"There are Indians out West," said Euphemia, as she sat gazing into the
mangroves, "who live on roots, but I don't believe they could live on
these. The pappooses  would certainly fall through."

At Jupiter Inlet, about a hundred and fifty miles from our point of
starting, we went into camp, in which delightful condition we proposed
to remain for a week or more. There was no trouble whatever in finding
a suitable place for a camp. The spot selected was a point of land
swept by cool breezes, with a palmetto forest in the rear of it. On two
sides of the point stretched the clear waters of the river, while half
a mile to the east was Jupiter Inlet, on each side of which rolled and
tumbled the surf of the Atlantic. About a mile away was Jupiter
Light-house, the only human habitation within twenty miles. We built a
palmetto hut for a kitchen; we set up the tents in a permanent way; we
constructed a little pier for the yacht; we built a wash-stand, a
table, and a bench. And then, considering that we had actually gone
into camp, we got out our fishing-lines.

Fishing was to be the great work here. Near the Inlet, through which
the waters of the ocean poured into and out of our river, on a long,
sandy beach, we stood in line, two or three hours every day except
Sunday, and fished. Such fishing we had never imagined!--there  were so
many fishes, and they were so big. The Paying Teller had never fished
in his life before he came to Florida. He had tried at St. Augustine,
with but little success. "If the sport had been to chuck fish into the
river," he had said, "that would be more in my line of business; but
getting them out of it did not seem to suit me." But here it was quite
a different thing. It was a positive delight to him, he said, to be
obliged so often to pay out his line.

One day, when tired of struggling with gamy blue-fish  and powerful
cavalios (if that is the way to spell it), I wound up my line, and
looked about to see what the others were doing. The Paying Teller stood
near, on tiptoe, as usual, with his legs wide apart, his hat thrown
back, his eyes flashing over the water, and his right arm stretched far
out, ready for a jerk. Quee was farther along the beach. He had just
landed a fish, and was standing gazing meditatively upon it as it lay
upon the sand. The hook was still in its mouth, and every now and then
he would give the line a little pull, as if to see if there really was
a connection between it and the fish. Then he would stand a little
longer, and meditate a little more, still looking  alternately at the
line and the fish. Having made up his mind, at last, that the two
things must be separated, he kneeled down upon his flopping prize and
proceeded meditatively to extract the hook. The teacher was struggling
at her line. Hand over hand she pulled it in. As it came nearer and
nearer, her fish swam wildly from side to side, making the tightened
line fairly hiss as it swept through the water. But still she pulled
and pulled, until, red and breathless, she landed her prize upon the
sand.

"Hurrah!" shouted the Paying Teller. "That's the biggest blue-fish
yet!" But he did not come to take the fish from the hook. He was
momentarily expecting a bite.

Euphemia was not to be seen. This did not surprise  me, as she
frequently gave up fishing long before the others, and went to stroll
upon the sea-beach, a few hundred yards away. She was fond of fishing,
but it soon tired her. "If you want to know what it is like," she wrote
to a friend in the North, "just tie a long string around your boy
Charlie, and try to haul him out of the back yard into the house."

But Euphemia was not upon the sea-beach to-day. I walked a mile or so
along the sand, but did not find her. She had gone around the little
bluff to our shark-line. This was a long rope, like a clothes-line,
with a short chain at the end and a great hook, which was baited with a
large piece of fish. It was thrown out every day, the land end tied to
a stout stake driven into the sand, and the whole business given into
the charge of "the crew," who was to report if a shark should bite. But
to-day the little rascal had wandered away, and Euphemia was managing
the line.

"I thought I would try to catch a shark all by myself," she said. "I
wonder if there's one on the hook now. Would you mind feeling the
line?"

I laughed as I took the rope from her hand.

"If you had a shark on the hook, my dear," said I, "you would have no
doubt upon the subject."

"It would be a splendid thing to catch the first one," she said, "and
there must be lots of them in here, for we have seen their back fins so
often."

I was about to answer this remark when I began to walk out into the
water. I did not at the time know exactly why I did this, but it seemed
as if some one had taken me by the hand and was leading me into the
depths. But the water splashing above my ankles and a scream from
Euphemia made me drop the line, which immediately spun out to its full
length, making the stake creak and move in the sand.

"Goodness gracious!" cried Euphemia, her face pale as the beach. "Isn't
it horrible? We've got one!"

"Horrible!" I cried. "Didn't you want to get one?" and seizing the axe,
which lay near by, I drove the stake deep down into the sand. "Now it
will hold him!" I cried. "He can't pull that out!"

"But how are we to pull him in?" exclaimed Euphemia. "This line is as
tight as a guitar-string."

This was true. I took hold of the rope, but could make no impression on
it. Suddenly it slackened in my hand.

"Hurrah!" I cried, "we may have him yet! But we must play him."

"Play him!" exclaimed Euphemia. "You can never play a huge creature
like that. Let me go and call some of the others to help."

"No, no!" I said. "Perhaps we can do it all by ourselves. Wind the line
quickly around the top of the stake as I pull it in."

Euphemia knelt down and rapidly wound several yards of the slack cord
around the stake. In a few moments it tightened again, jerking itself
out of my hand.

"There, now!" said Euphemia. "He is off again! You can never haul him
in, now."

"Just wait," I said. "When he finds that he cannot break away he rushes
toward shore, trying to bite the line above the chain. Then I must haul
it in and you must wind it up. If you and I and the shark continue to
act in this way, perhaps, after a time, we may get him into shallow
water. But don't scream or shout. I don't want the others to know
anything about it."

Sure enough, in a minute or two the line slackened again, when it was
rapidly drawn in and wound around the stake.

"There he is!" exclaimed Euphemia. "I can see him just under the water,
out there."

The dark form of the shark, appearing at first like the shadow of a
little cloud, could be seen near the surface, about fifteen yards away.
Then his back fin rose, his tail splashed violently for an instant, and
he disappeared. Again the line was loosened, and again the slack was
hauled in and wound up. This was repeated, I don't know how many times,
when suddenly  the shark in his desperation rushed into shallow water
and grounded himself. He would have floundered  off in a few moments,
however, had we not quickly tightened the line. Now we could see him
plainly. He was eight or nine feet long and struggled  violently,
exciting Euphemia so much that it was only by clapping her hand over
her mouth that she prevented herself from screaming. I would have
pulled the shark farther in shore, but this was impossible,  and it was
needless to expect him to move himself  into shallower water. So,
quickly rolling up my trousers, I seized the axe and waded in toward
the floundering creature.

"You needn't be afraid to go right up to him," said Euphemia. "So long
as he don't turn over on his back he can't bite you."

I had heard this bit of natural history before, but, nevertheless, I
went no nearer to the shark than was necessary in order to whack him
over the head with the axe. This I did several times, with such effect
that he soon became a dead shark.

When I came out triumphant, Euphemia seized me in her arms and kissed
me.

"This is perfectly splendid!" she said. "Who can show as big a fish as
this one? None of the others can ever crow over you again."

"Until one of them catches a bigger shark," I said.

"Which none of them ever will," said Euphemia, decidedly. "It isn't in
them."

The boatman was now seen approaching in his boat to take the party back
to camp, and the "crew," having returned to his duty, was sent off in a
state of absolute amazement to tell the others to come and look at our
prize. Our achievement certainly created a sensation. Even the boatman
could find no words to express his astonishment. He waded in and
fastened a rope to the shark's tail, and then we all took hold and
hauled the great fish ashore.

"What is the good of it now you have got it?" asked Quee.

"Glory is some good!" exclaimed Euphemia.

"And I'm going to have you a belt made from a strip of its skin," I
said.

This seemed to Euphemia a capital idea. She would be delighted to have
such a trophy of our deed, and the boatman was set to work to cut a
suitable strip from the fish. And this belt, having been properly
tanned, lined, and fitted with buckles, is now one of her favorite
adornments, and cost, I am bound to add, about three times as much as
any handsome leathern belt to be bought in the stores.

Every day the Paying Teller, his wife, and Quee carefully set down in
their note-books the weight of fish each individual had caught, with
all necessary details and specifications relating thereunto; every day
we wandered on the beach, or explored the tropical  recesses of the
palmetto woods; every evening the boatman rowed over to the light-house
to have a bit of gossip, and to take thither the fish we did not need;
every day the sun was soft and warm, and the sky was blue; and every
morning, going oceanward, and every evening, going landward, seven
pelicans flew slowly by our camp.

My greatest desire at this time was to shoot a pelican, to have him
properly prepared, and to take him to Rudder Grange, where, suitably
set up, with his wings spread out, full seven feet from tip to tip, he
would be a grand trophy and reminder of these Indian River days. This
was the reason why, nearly every morning and every evening, I took a
shot at these seven pelicans. But I never hit one of them. We had only
a shot-gun, and the pelicans flew at a precautionary distance; but,
being such big birds, they always looked to me much nearer than they
were. Euphemia earnestly desired that I should have a pelican, and
although she always wished I should hit one of these, she was always
glad when I did not.

"Think how mournful it would be," she said, "if they should take their
accustomed flights, morning and evening, with one of their number
missing."

"Repeating Wordsworth's verses, I suppose," remarked  the little
teacher.

I had been disappointed in the number of pelicans we had seen. I knew
that Florida was one of the homes of the pelican, and I had not
expected to see these birds merely in small detachments. But our
boatman assured me that on our return trip he would give me a chance of
seeing and shooting as many pelicans  as I could desire. We would
touch at Pelican Island, which was inhabited entirely by these birds,
and whence the parties of seven were evidently sent out.

When we had had all the fishing we wanted, we broke up our camp, and
started northward. We had all been very happy and contented during our
ten days' sojourn in this delightful place; but when at last our
departure was determined upon, the Paying Teller became possessed with
a wild desire to go, go, go. There was some reason, never explained nor
fully expressed, why no day, hour, minute, or second should be lost in
speeding to the far Northwest. The boatman, too, impelled by what
impulse I know not, seemed equally anxious to get home. As for the
Paying Teller's "group," it always did exactly as he wished. Therefore,
although Euphemia and I would have been glad to linger here and there
upon our homeward way, we could not gainsay the desire of the majority
of the party, and consequently we sailed northward as fast as wind and
sometimes oars would take us.

Only one cause for delay seemed tolerable to the Paying Teller. This
was to stop at every post-office. We had received but one mail while in
camp, which had been brought in a sail-boat from an office twenty miles
away. But the Paying Teller had given and written the most intricate
and complex directions for the retention or forwarding of his mail to
every postmaster  in the country we had passed through, and these
directions, as we afterward found, had so puzzled  and unsettled the
minds of these postmasters that for several weeks his letters had been
moving like shuttlecocks up and down the St. John's and Indian
rivers--never stopping anywhere, never being delivered,  but crossing
and recrossing each other as if they were imbued with their owner's
desire to go, go, go. Some of the post-offices where we stopped were
lonely little buildings with no other habitation near. These we usually
found shut up, being opened only on mail-days,  and in such cases
nothing could be done but to slip a protesting postal into the little
slit in the wall apparently intended for letters. Whether these postals
were eaten by rats or read by the P.M.'s, we never discovered. Wherever
an office was found open, we left behind us an irate postmaster
breathing all sorts of contemplated vengeance upon the disturbers of
his peace. We heard of letters that had been sent north and sent south,
but there never were any at the particular place where we happened to
be, and I suppose  that the accumulated mail of the Paying Teller may
for several years drop gradually upon him through the meshes of the
Dead-Letter Office.

There were a great many points of interest which we had passed on our
downward trip, the boatman assuring us that, with the wind we had, and
which might cease at any moment, the great object was to reach Jupiter
as soon as possible, and that we would stop at the interesting places
on the way up. But now the wind, according to his reasoning, made it
necessary that we should again push forward as fast as we could; and,
as I said before, the irresistible attraction of the Northwest so
worked upon the Paying  Teller that he was willing to pause nowhere,
during  the daytime, but at a post-office. At one place, however, I was
determined to land. This was Pelican Island. The boatman, paying no
attention to his promise to stop here and give me an opportunity to
shoot one of these birds, declared, when near the place, that it would
never do, with such a wind, to drop anchor for a trifle like a pelican.
The Paying Teller and Quee also strongly objected to a stop; and, while
the teacher had a great desire to investigate the subject of
ornithology, especially when exemplified by such a subject as a
pelican, she felt herself obliged to be loyal to her "group," and so
quietly gave her voice to go on. But I, supported by Euphemia, remained
so firm that we anchored a short distance from Pelican Island.

None of the others had any desire to go ashore, and so I, with the gun
and Euphemia, took the boat and rowed to the island. While we were here
the others determined to sail to the opposite side of the river to look
for a little post-office, the existence of which the boatman had not
mentioned until it had been determined  to make this stoppage here.

As we approached the island we saw hundreds of pelicans, some flying
about, some sitting on trunks and branches of dead trees, and some
waddling about on the shore.

"You might as well shoot two of them," said Euphemia,  "and then we
will select the better one to take to Rudder Grange."

The island was very boggy and muddy, and, before I had found a good
place to land, and had taken up the gun from the bow of the boat, every
pelican in sight took wing and flew away. I stood up and fired both
barrels at the retreating flock. They swerved and flew oceanward, but
not one of them fell. I helped Euphemia on shore, and then, gun in
hand, I made my way as well as I could to the other end of the island.
There might be some deaf old fellows left who had not made up their
minds to fly. The ground was very muddy, and drift-wood and under-brush
obstructed my way. Still, I pressed on, and went nearly half around the
island, finding, however, not a single pelican.

Soon I heard Euphemia's voice, calling loud. She seemed to be about the
centre of the island, and I ran toward her.

"I've got one!" I heard her cry, before I came in sight of her. She was
sitting at the root of a crooked, dead tree. In front of her she held,
one hand grasping  each leg, what seemed to me to be an ungainly and
wingless goose. All about her the ground was soft and boggy. Her
clothes were muddy, her face was red, and the creature she held was
struggling violently.

"What on earth have you got?" I exclaimed, approaching  as near as I
could, "and how did you get out there?"

"Don't you come any closer!" she cried. "You'll sink up to your waist!
I got here by treading on the little hummocks and holding on to that
dead branch; but don't you take hold of it, for you'll break it off,
and then I can't get back."

"But what is that thing?" I repeated.

"It's a young pelican," she replied. "I found a lot of nests on the
ground over there, and this was in one of them. I chased it all about,
until it flopped out here and hid itself on the other side of this
tree. Then I came out quietly and caught it. But how am I going to get
it to you?"

This seemed, indeed, a problem. Euphemia declared  that she needed both
hands to work her way back by the means of the long, horizontal limb
which had assisted her passage to the place where she sat, and she also
needed both hands to hold her prize. It was likewise plain that I could
not get to her. Indeed,  I could not see how her light steps had taken
her over the soft and marshy ground that lay between us. I suggested
that she should throw the pelican to me. This she declined to do.

"I could never throw it so far," she said, "and it would surely get
away. I don't want to lose this pelican, for I believe it is the last
one on the island. If there are other young ones, they have scuttled
off by this time, and I should dreadfully hate to go back to the yacht
without any pelican at all."

"I don't call that much of one," I said.

"It's a real pelican for all that," she replied, "and about as curious
a bird as I ever saw. Its wings won't stretch out seven feet, to be
sure."

"About seven inches," I suggested.

"But it is a great deal easier to carry a young one like this," she
persisted, "and I expect a baby pelican is a much more uncommon sight
in the North than a grown one."

"No doubt of it," I said. "We must keep him now you've got him. Can't
you kill him?"

"I've no way of killing him," returned Euphemia. "I wonder if you could
shoot him if I were to hold him out."

This, with a shot-gun, I positively declined to do. Even if I had had a
rifle, I suggested that she might swerve. For a few moments we remained
nonplussed. I could not get to Euphemia at all, and she could not get
to me unless she released her bird, and this she was determined not to
do.

"Euphemia," I said, presently, "the ground seems hard a little way in
front of you. If you step over there, I will go out on this strip,
which seems pretty solid. Then I'll be near enough to you for you to
swing the bird to me, and I'll catch hold of him."

Euphemia arose and did as I told her, and we soon found ourselves about
six feet apart. She took the bird by one leg and swung it toward me.
With outstretched  arm I caught it by the other foot, but as I did so I
noticed that Euphemia was growing shorter, and also felt myself sinking
in the bog. Instantly I entreated Euphemia to stand perfectly still,
for, if we struggled or moved, there was no knowing into what more
dreadful depths we might get. Euphemia obeyed me, and stood quite
still, but I could feel that she clutched the pelican with desperate
vigor.

"How much farther down do you think we shall sink?" she asked, her
voice trembling a little.

"Not much farther," I said. "I am sure there is firm ground beneath us,
but it will not do to move. If we should fall down, we might not be
able to get up again."

"How glad I am," she said, "that we are not entirely separated, even if
it is only a baby pelican that joins us!"

"Indeed, I am glad!" I said, giving the warm pressure  to the pelican's
leg that I would have given to Euphemia's hand, if I could have reached
her. Euphemia  looked up at me so confidently that I could but believe
that in some magnetic way that pressure had been transmitted through
the bird.

"Do you think they will come back?" she said, directly.

"Oh, yes," I replied, "there's no manner of doubt of that."

"They'll be dreadfully cross," she said.

"I shouldn't wonder," I replied. "But it makes very little difference
to me whether they are or not."

"It ought to make a difference to you," said Euphemia. "They might
injure us very much."

"If they tried anything of the kind," I replied, "they'd find it worse
for them than for us."

"That is boasting," said Euphemia, a little reproachfully,  "and it
does not sound like you."

I made no answer to this, and then she asked:--

"What do you think they will do when they come?"

"I think they will put a plank out here and pull us out."

Euphemia looked at me an instant, and then her eyes filled with tears.

"Oh, dear!" she exclaimed, "it's dreadful! You know they couldn't do
it. Your mind is giving way!"

She sobbed, and I could feel the tremor run through the pelican.

"What do you mean?" I cried, anxiously. "My mind giving way?"

"Yes--yes," she sobbed. "If you were in your right senses--you'd never
think--that pelicans could bring a plank."

I looked at her in astonishment.

"Pelicans!" I exclaimed. "Did you think I meant the pelicans were
coming back?"

"Of course," she said. "That's what I was asking you about."

"I wasn't thinking of pelicans at all," I answered "I was talking of
the people in the yacht."

Euphemia looked at me, and then the little pelican between us began to
shake violently as we laughed.

"I know people sometimes do lose their minds when they get into great
danger," she said, apologetically.

"Hello!" came a voice from the water. "What are you laughing about?"

"Come and see," I shouted back, "and perhaps you will laugh, too."

The three men came; they had to wade ashore; and when they came they
laughed. They brought a plank, and with a good deal of trouble they
drew us out, but Euphemia would not let go of her leg of the little
pelican until she was sure I had a tight hold of mine.

Day after day we now sailed northward, until we reached the little town
at which we had embarked. Here we discarded our blue flannels and three
half-grown  beards, and slowly made our way through woods and lakes and
tortuous streams to the upper waters of the St. John's. In this region
the population  of the river shores seemed to consist entirely of
alligators, in which monsters Euphemia was greatly interested. But she
seldom got a near view of one, for the sportsmen on our little steamer
blazed away at every alligator as soon as it came into distant sight;
and, although the ugly creatures were seldom hit, they made haste to
tumble into the water or disappear among the tall reeds. Euphemia was
very much annoyed at this.

"I shall never get a good close look at an alligator at all," she said.
"I am going to speak to the captain."

The captain, a big, good-natured man, listened to her, and entirely
sympathized with her.

"Tom," said he to the pilot, "when you see another big 'gator on shore,
don't sing out to nobody, but call me, and slow up."

It was not long before chocolate-colored Tom called to the captain, and
rang the bell to lessen speed.

"Gentlemen," said the captain, walking forward to the group of
sportsmen, "there's a big 'gator ahead there, but don't none of you
fire at him. He's copyrighted."

The men with the guns did not understand him, but none of them fired,
and Euphemia and the other ladies soon had the satisfaction of seeing
an enormous alligator lying on the bank, within a dozen yards of the
boat. The great creature raised its head, and looked at us in apparent
amazement at not being shot at. Then, probably considering that we did
not know the customs of the river, or were out of ammunition, he slowly
slipped away among the reeds with an air as if, like Mr. Turveydrop, he
had done his duty in showing himself, and if we did not take advantage
of it, it was no affair of his.

"If we only had a fellow like that for a trophy!" ejaculated Euphemia.

"He'd do very well for a trophy," I answered, "but if, in order to get
him, I had to hold him by one leg while you held him by another, I
should prefer a baby pelican."

Our trip down the St. John's met with no obstacles except those
occasioned by the Paying Teller's return tickets. He had provided
himself and his group with all sorts of return tickets from the various
points he had expected to visit in Florida. These were good only on
particular steamboats, and could be used only to go from one particular
point to another. Fortunately he had lost several of them, but there
were enough left to give us a good deal of trouble. We did not wish to
break up the party, and consequently we embarked and disembarked
whenever the Paying Teller's group did so; and thus, in time, we all
reached that widespread and sandy city which serves for the gate of
Florida.

From here, the Paying Teller and his group, with complicated tickets,
the determinate scope and purpose  of which no one man living could be
expected to understand, hurried wildly toward the far Northwest; while
we, in slower fashion, returned to Rudder Grange.

There, in a place of honor over the dining-room door, stands the baby
pelican, its little flippers wide outstretched.

"How often I think," Euphemia sometimes says, "of that moment of peril,
when the only actual bond of union between us was that little pelican!"




THE RUDDER GRANGERS IN ENGLAND.


It was mainly due to Pomona that we went to Europe at all. For years
Euphemia and I had been anxious to visit the enchanted lands on the
other side of the Atlantic, but the obstacles had always been very
great, and the matter had been indefinitely postponed. Pomona and Jonas
were still living with us, and their little girl was about two years
old. Pomona continued to read a great deal, but her husband's influence
had diverted her mind toward works of history and travel, and these she
devoured with eager interest. But she had not given up her old fancy
for romance. Nearly everything she read was mingled in her mind with
Middle Age legends and tales of strange adventure. Euphemia's frequent
reference to a trip to Europe had fired Pomona's mind, and she was now
more wildly anxious for the journey than any of us. She believed that
it would entirely free Jonas from the chills and fever that still
seemed to permeate his being. And besides this, what unutterable joy to
tread the sounding pavements of those old castles of which she had so
often read! Pomona further perceived that my mental and physical
systems required the rest and change of scene which could be given only
by a trip to Europe. When this impression had been produced upon
Euphemia's mind, the matter, to all intents and purposes, was settled.
A tenant, who I suspect was discovered and urged forward by the
indefatigable Pomona, made an application for a year's lease of our
house and farm. In a business view I found I could make the journey
profitable, and there seemed to be no reason why we should not go, and
go now.

It appeared to be accepted as a foregone conclusion by Euphemia and
Pomona that the latter, with her husband and child, should accompany
us; but of this I could not, at first, see the propriety.

"We shall not want servants on a trip like that," I said; "and although
I like Jonas and Pomona very much, they are not exactly the people I
should prefer as travelling companions."

"If you think you are going to leave Pomona behind," said Euphemia,
"you are vastly mistaken. Oceans and continents are free to her, and
she will follow us at a distance if we don't let her go with us. She
was quite content not to go with us to Florida, but she is just one
tingle from head to foot to go to Europe. We have talked the whole
thing over, and I know that she will be of the greatest possible use
and comfort to me in ever so many ways; and Jonas will be needed to
take care of the baby. Jonas has money, and they will pay a great part
of their own expenses, and will not cost us much, and you needn't be
afraid that Pomona will make us ashamed of ourselves, if we happen to
be talking to the Dean of Westminster or the Archbishop of Canterbury,
by pushing herself into the conversation."

"Indeed," said I, "if we ever happen to be inveigled into a confab with
those dignitaries, I hope Pomona will come to the front and take my
place."

The only person not entirely satisfied with the proposed journey was
Jonas.

"I don't like trapsin' round," said he, "from place to place, and never
did. If I could go to some one spot and stay there with the child,
while the rest of you made trips, I'd be satisfied, but I don't like
keepin' on the steady go."

This plan was duly considered, and the suitability of certain points
was discussed. London was not believed sufficiently accessible for
frequent return trips; Paris could scarcely be called very central;
Naples would not be suitable at all times of the year, and Cairo was a
little too far eastward. A number of minor places were suggested, but
Jonas announced that he had thought of a capital location, and being
eagerly asked to name it, he mentioned Newark, New Jersey.

"I'd feel at home there," he said, "and it's about as central as any
place, when you come to look on the map of the world."

But he was not allowed to remain in his beloved New Jersey, and we took
him with us to Europe.

We did not, like the rest of the passengers on the steamer, go directly
from Liverpool to London, but stopped for a couple of days in the
quaint old town of Chester. "If we don't see it now," said Euphemia,
"we never shall see it. When we once start back we shall be raving
distracted to get home, and I wouldn't miss Chester for anything."

"There is an old wall there," said the enthusiastic Pomona to her
husband, "built by Julius Caesar before the Romans became Catholics,
that you kin walk on all round the town; an' a tower on it which the
king of England stood on to see his army defeated, though of course it
wasn't put up for that purpose; besides, more old-timenesses which the
book tells of than we can see in a week."