It was on Sunday when I awoke to the realization that I had quitted
civilization and was afloat on an unfamiliar body of water in an open
boat containing-

One light steel cage,
One rifle and ammunition,
One stenographer,
Three ounces rosium oxide,
One hound-dog,
Two valises.

A playful wave slopped over the bow and I lost count; but the pretty
stenographer made the inventory, while I resumed the oars, and the dog
punctured the primeval silence with staccato yelps.

A few minutes later everything and everybody was accounted for; the
sky was blue and the palms waved, and several species of dicky-birds
tuned up as I pulled with powerful strokes out into the sunny waters
of Little Sprite Lake, now within a few miles of my journey's end.

From ponds hidden in the marshes herons rose in lazily laborious
flight, flapping low across the water; high in the cypress yellow-eyed
ospreys bent crested heads to watch our progress; sun-baked
alligators, lying heavily in the shoreward sedge, slid open, glassy
eyes as we passed.

"Even the 'gators make eyes at you," I said, resting on my oars.

We were on terms of badinage.

"Who was it who shed crocodile tears at the prospect of shipping me
North?" she inquired.

"Speaking of tears," I observed, "somebody is likely to shed a number
when Professor Farrago is picked up."

"Pooh!" she said, and snapped her pretty, sun-tanned fingers; and I
resumed the oars in time to avoid shipwreck on a large mud-bar.