According to the prearranged plan they were to cruise about at the edge of the archipelago till the Tarantula hove in sight and they could make final arrangements for wireless codes and signals and also complete the plan of rescuing Lieutenant Chapin and getting the formula out of the hands of those who had it. After two days of waiting, which sadly irritated the boys, who were keenly impatient to begin their task, one morning the placid waters of the gulf were furrowed by the sharp bow of the Tarantula and the Carrier Dove sailed out to meet her.
On board the destroyer the boys were greeted by a very youthful looking lieutenant, whose name was Selby. He explained that his orders were to keep in constant touch with the expedition, so far as was possible, by wireless and that if they were missing without sending any word for more than a week he was to take a squad of men and penetrate the Everglades in search of them.
He was very anxious for the boys to take several picked men of his crew along with them in their bold dash. But Frank and Harry, after a brief consultation, agreed that the force they had at present formed a good working unit and there was no need of shortening their supplies and overloading the canoes by taking any more. After a dinner aboard the hospitable Tarantula the boys dropped over the side into the Carrier Dove, which had lain sociably alongside the grim war-vessel while they were aboard, and with warm words of farewell from Lieutenant Selby and a cheer from the crew, among whom word of what was on foot had spread in some mysterious way, they started for the maze of islets and channels beyond which lay the mouth of the Shark River. They anchored that night off a small island covered with a dense undergrowth that promised snakes and that there was at least one variety of reptile ready to receive them was evidenced when, as the Carrier Dove’s anchor rattled down into about twelve feet of water, a huge body slipped off the bank and slid into the water with a sullen splash.
“An alligator!” cried the boys.
“No, sah,” rejoined Pork Chops, “dat dar ain’t no ’gator, dat’s a crokindile and where dey are dere’s mischief.”
“Are they more dangerous than alligators?” asked Frank.
“More dangerouser!” scornfully replied Pork Chops. “Ah should jes’ say dey is. ’Gators—huh! they am big cowards, but crokindile he’ll fight yer till his teef drap out—yes, sah, they’s bad critters is crokindiles.”
“I’d like to get that fellow’s skin though,” said Frank.
The old darky scratched his head.
“Wall, sah,” he said; “I ain’t saying that dat’s impossible. ’Spose we try to git him by jacklight.”