Part 1 (1/2)
The Rudder Grangers Abroad and Other Stories.
by Frank R. Stockton.
EUPHEMIA AMONG THE PELICANS.
The sun shone warm and soft, as it s.h.i.+nes 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 splas.h.i.+ng 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 uns.h.i.+pped her; still, if one would be happy, there are risks that must be a.s.sumed. 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 suns.h.i.+ne. 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 astonis.h.i.+ng 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 anch.o.r.ed near the sh.o.r.e. Euphemia and I occupied the cabin of the boat; a tent was pitched on sh.o.r.e 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.