"Please don't shoot," I said, trying to smile.
"Where is Jackachobee?" she demanded.
"I'm Jackachobee."
"But you're not an Indian!"
"No, but I really am the friend Tachachobee told you of."
I could see that she was growing more alarmed, and now spoke frankly, saying:
"I pretended to be a Seminole last night because explanations would have taken time; and I thought, too, that you'd feel safer with a good Indian because he's easier to boss than a white man."
Her eyes narrowed, subtly suggesting that she might take this as a challenge. At last, having looked me over—but not once removing her hand from the revolver butt—she said, with a little pucker between her eyebrows:
"I've seen you somewhere. Were you ever in our—in that place over there?"
Now, of course, I could hardly expect her to see a resemblance between a chap wearing breeches and puttees in a Florida wilderness and the dinner-jacketed yachtsman who dined near her table off yonder in Havana. It would be asking a great deal—although I did feel disappointed.