By William A. Stimpson
“Good-by, fellows; don’t expect me back before supper time.” Waving his hand to his friends, Alfred Whyte pushed the bateau into the water, took his seat in the centre, and with a few strong, even strokes of the paddle sent the frail craft out of sight around a bend in the stream.
It was on the edge of the Florida Everglades, those low, marshy tracts of swamp land that cover the whole of the lower end of the peninsula. Two New York boys, Willard King and Marvin Stebbins, had homesteaded a claim in the heart of the morass and were engaged in growing tomatoes for the northern markets. Alfred, a former schoolmate, was spending a few weeks with them in their southern home.
The piece of land upon which the two northerners had settled was about fifty acres in extent. It rose, island-like, from out the midst of the network of little creeks and streams that crisscrossed in every direction and made a veritable land-and-water spider’s web of that part of the State.
The tomato plants were set out in February and now, the first of April, the tomatoes had begun to turn red and were large enough to be picked. They had to be handled very carefully, wrapped in tissue paper, and packed in light wooden crates, so as to permit the process of ripening to be completed on the trip north. Picking and packing them was tedious and took considerable time. Both the young truck farmers had their hands full, and when a flock of wild ducks flew overhead on their way to the feeding grounds half a mile further inland, they merely directed a passing glance upward and then, stifling their sportsmen’s instinct, turned to their work again.
All the morning the wild fowl could be heard thrashing about in the tall grass at the lagoon, and both King and Stebbins were sorely tempted several times to slip up stream in the hope of bagging a couple. But the steamer on which they intended shipping their produce sailed from Lincoln, fifteen miles east, the next afternoon, and by working persistently until dark they could hardly get their crop ready for an early start on the following morning for the river town.
“If neither of you fellows can spare the time to go duck shooting, why can’t I paddle up there and try a shot or two?” asked Alfred, late in the afternoon.
“All the reason in the world, Al,” replied King. “No one except a native, or a person who has lived here as long as we have, can traverse this swamp in safety. Why, before you reach the lake where the ducks are you will pass eight or ten little streams, any one of which you are just as likely to enter as to keep on up the main channel. We’re afraid you’ll get lost, Al. Don’t you think so?” he asked, turning to Stebbins.
“But I’ve been all around there with you fellows,” explained Alfred, trying in vain to conceal his disappointment. “I’ve been up to the lake, too, and I know the main stream perfectly well. I’m going to try it, for I must have some roast duck.”