As soon as the skipper and mate had recovered their strength, they weighed anchor and sailed away from the island that had so nearly been the scene of their death.
Down the coast they sped, nearer and nearer the long point that divides the Gulf of Mexico from the Atlantic Ocean. The boys grew more and more impatient as they drew gradually nearer to the old ocean. The stops were as brief as possible; they merely touched to get fresh water and buy fruit or necessary food. There were no towns of interest to visit—mere clusters of fishermen’s huts.
Cape Romano, that point around which the waters of the Gulf continually froth and rage, was passed in safety, though the “Gazelle” tossed about roughly, and had, for a time, a tussle with the seas that tested her thoroughly.
Now began the trip through that maze of intricate channels of the Ten Thousand Islands, where many a good vessel has been lost—a place that was once the refuge of pirates, and even now retains the flavor of bloodthirsty tales. On one of these islands, or keys, the boys landed in search of fresh water. After walking a while, they came to a snug little cove or inlet, and were surprised to find a graceful sloop anchored cosily therein. From the cove led a well-beaten path, which, Frank and Kenneth following, came to a picturesque cottage thatched with palm branches. It was weatherbeaten, but looked comfortable. A young woman was standing in front, and in answer to their polite questions about water and the easiest of the many puzzling channels to follow, suggested that they ask “John,” and pointed with her thumb over her shoulder to the open door of the hut. Needing no second invitation, their curiosity fully aroused by the strange remoteness of this little home, they stepped on, and looked through the door into the larger of the two rooms the house contained. There, prone on the floor, stretched on a gray rag carpet, lay an old man; his complexion was brown, dark, and rich in color as century-old mahogany; his thick, white hair—bushy and plentiful—framed a face seamed and lined, but keen and full of vigor. The old man stirred at the sound of the boys’ step, then rose and went toward them inquiringly.
“The young lady said that you knew all about the coast, and could tell us the best way to get through the islands,” Kenneth began.
“Yes, I do know something of the coast,” and the old man smiled, as if at a joke too private to be told.
He asked the boys about themselves, and was much interested in their tale of pluck and their plans for the balance of the cruise. After they had finished their recital, he, in his turn, began an account of the channels, harbors, shoals, tides, and currents, that showed an acquaintance with the coast along the Gulf that was indeed marvellous. His voice was clear and full, and he gestured freely as he talked with the animation of a young man.
JOHN GOMEZ’S CABIN.
“A ... COTTAGE THATCHED WITH PALM BRANCHES.”
Both of the boys instinctively understood that there was something extraordinary about him, although they could not tell what it was.