Part 20 (1/2)

”'The carrion-crows Sing, Caw! caw!'

--only they don't,” I added, my song putting me in good-humor once more. And I glanced askance at the pretty stenographer.

”It is a pleasure to be employed by agreeable people,” she said, innocently.

”Oh, I can be much more agreeable than that,” I said.

”Is Professor Farrago--amusing?” she asked.

”Well--oh, certainly--but not in--in the way I am.”

Suddenly it flashed upon me that my superior was a confirmed hater of unmarried women. I had clean forgotten it; and now the full import of what I had done scared me silent.

”Is anything the matter?” asked Miss Barrison.

”No--not yet,” I said, ominously.

How on earth could I have overlooked that well-known fact. The hurry and anxiety, the stress of instant preparation and departure, had clean driven it from my absent-minded head.

Jogging on over the sand, I sat silent, cudgelling my brains for a solution of the disastrous predicament I had gotten into. I pictured the astonished rage of my superior--my probable dismissal from employment--perhaps the general overturning and smash-up of the entire expedition.

A distant, dark object on the beach concentrated my distracted thoughts; it must be the breakwater at Cape Canaveral. And it was the breakwater, swarming with negro workmen, who were swinging great blocks of coquina into cemented beds, singing and whistling at their labor.

I forgot my predicament when I saw a thin white man in sun-helmet and khaki directing the work from the beach; and as our horses plodded up, I stepped out and hailed him by name.

”Yes, my name is Rowan,” he said, instantly, turning to meet me. His sharp, clear eyes included the vehicle and the stenographer, and he lifted his helmet, then looked squarely at me.

”My name is Gilland,” I said, dropping my voice and stepping nearer.

”I have just come from Bronx Park, New York.”

He bowed, waiting for something more from me; so I presented my credentials.

His formal manner changed at once. ”Come over here and let us talk a bit,” he said, cordially--then hesitated, glancing at Miss Barrison--”if your wife would excuse us--”

The pretty stenographer colored, and I dryly set Mr. Rowan right--which appeared to disturb him more than his mistake.

”Pardon me, Mr. Gilland, but you do not propose to take this young girl into the Everglades, do you?”

”That's what I had proposed to do,” I said, brusquely.

Perfectly aware that I resented his inquiry, he cast a perplexed and troubled glance at her, then slowly led the way to a great block of sun-warmed coquina, where he sat down, motioning me to do the same.

”I see,” he said, ”that you don't know just where you are going or just what you are expected to do.”

”No, I don't,” I said.

”Well, I'll tell you, then. You are going into the devil's own country to look for something that I fled five hundred miles to avoid.”

”Is that so?” I said, uneasily.