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“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!”