“But you clung to that like a hero,” grinned Bill. “When we get to wherever we’re getting, I’ll pin a medal on you, Sam. Just now, I’m out of pins.”
“I know you is kiddin’ me,” returned the darkey, showing his teeth in a wide smile. “Some day mebbe I’ll hold you to dat promise, Marse Bill.”
“Okay, Sam. Pass over any hardware you may be toting. I want to clean it.”
That night, after, a weary day of paddling, they camped on an island which embraced several miles of dry land. Here Osceola shot a small deer, which they found a welcome change in diet, from the fish-tainted flesh of birds.
“There are just two things queer about this place,” remarked Bill as they rested beside the fire after supper.
“What are they?” asked the young Seminole chief.
“In every picture I’ve ever seen of the Florida swamps, they have snakes hanging in festoons from the trees—great, big fellows. Yet, so far, I haven’t seen a single one.”
“That’s because they don’t happen to roost in trees. Not in this state. That is, except in the artist’s imagination. There are plenty of snakes, though—rattlers, moccasins and the like. Never go into high grass on these islands, or you are not likely to come out alive. What’s the other queer thing?”
Bill stretched his arms above his head, and lay back comfortably on the warm earth. “Last night,” he yawned, “the mosquitoes nearly drove me crazy. Today there were very few, and tonight, I haven’t felt one. There’s been no wind to speak of—they can’t have been blown away.”
Osceola laughed. “These glades aren’t such bad places to live in. They have some advantages. Of course, it is a snake infested wilderness, but there is such a dearth of stagnant water that few breeding places are furnished for insects. You won’t find mosquitoes except along the borders. We are well into the interior of the Everglades, now, that’s why they’ve disappeared.”