There was only one relief afforded by the mail-boat. The boys, anticipating that they might not be able to go on themselves, had each written a letter to his family, telling where he was, and giving a brief history of the state of affairs. Each letter, written on rumpled stationery supplied by Mr. Brewer, contained assurances of the perfect safety of the writer, and a request for money to be forwarded to Jacksonville, Florida, which point they hoped to reach in good time.
These, with money for the postage, were given to the carrier, who promised to have them properly mailed at the first post-office on the river.
A telegram was also written and given to the sporting gentleman, who promised to forward it as soon as he reached Sanford, on the St. John’s River, this being the nearest point from which telegrams could be sent.
“There, now,” said Chap, when the little boat had sailed away, “I feel more comfortable. The folks will know all about us just as soon as if we had gone on ourselves, and that’s the main thing; for, as far as I’m concerned, I’m in no particular hurry to get home.”
“You don’t want to stay here, do you?” asked Phœnix.
“No,” said Chap; “but we can tramp along and camp out for a while, till a boat comes by and takes us on. I don’t want any better fun than that.”
“We can’t tramp much farther on this beach,” said Phil. “It only reaches about a mile above us, Mr. Brewer says, and tramping and camping for a week or two, with no paths to walk in and nothing to eat, would be pretty tough work.”
“We could push back to the sea-shore,” said Chap, “and walk along there.”
“That might do as far as the walking is concerned,” said Phœnix; “but how about the victuals?”
“I’m not quartermaster,” said Chap, “I’m captain; and I’ll lead you fellows anywhere you want to go.”