FullReads

“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.