Chapter 15

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.

She reclined in the stern, serenely occupied with the view, now and then caressing the discouraged dog, now and then patting her hair where the wind had loosened a bright strand.

“If Professor Farrago didn’t expect a woman stenographer,” she said, abruptly, “why did he instruct you to bring a complete outfit of woman’s clothing?”

“I don’t know,” I said, tartly.

“But you bought them. Are they for a young woman or an old woman?”

“I don’t know; I sent a messenger to a department store. I don’t know what he bought.”

“Didn’t you look them over?”

“No. Why? I should have been no wiser. I fancy they’re all right, because the bill was eighteen hundred dollars—”

The pretty stenographer sat up abruptly.

“Is that much?” I asked, uneasily. “I’ve always heard women’s clothing was expensive. Wasn’t it enough? I told the boy to order the best;—Professor Farrago always requires the very best scientific instruments, and—I listed the clothes as scientific accessories—that being the object of this expedition—What are you laughing at?”

When it pleased her to recover her gravity she announced her desire to inspect and repack the clothing; but I refused.

“They’re for Professor Farrago,” I said. “I don’t know what he wants of them. I don’t suppose he intends to wear ‘em and caper about the jungle, but they’re his. I got them because he told me to. I bought a cage, too, to fit myself, but I don’t suppose he means to put me in it. Perhaps,” I added, “he may invite you into it.”

“Let me refold the gowns,” she pleaded, persuasively. “What does a clumsy man know about packing such clothing as that? If you don’t, they’ll be ruined. It’s a shame to drag those boxes about through mud and water!”

So we made a landing, and lifted out and unlocked the boxes. All I could see inside were mounds of lace and ribbons, and with a vague idea that Miss Barrison needed no assistance I returned to the boat and sat down to smoke until she was ready.

When she summoned me her face was flushed and her eyes bright.

“Those are certainly the most beautiful things!” she said, softly. “Why, it is like a bride’s trousseau—absolutely complete—all except the bridal gown—”

“Isn’t there a dress there?” I exclaimed, in alarm.

“No—not a day-dress.”

“Night-dresses!” I shrieked. “He doesn’t want women’s night-dresses! He’s a bachelor! Good Heavens! I’ve done it this time!”

“But—but who is to wear them?” she asked.

“How do I know? I don’t know anything; I can only presume that he doesn’t intend to open a department store in the Everglades. And if any lady is to wear garments in his vicinity, I assume that those garments are to be anything except diaphanous! ... Please take your seat in the boat, Miss Barrison. I want to row and think.”

I had had my fill of exercise and thought when, about four o’clock in the afternoon, Miss Barrison directed my attention to a point of palms jutting out into the water about a mile to the southward.

“That’s Farrago!” I exclaimed, catching sight of a United States flag floating majestically from a bamboo-pole. “Give me the megaphone, if you please.”

She handed me the instrument; I hailed the shore; and presently a man appeared under the palms at the water’s edge.

“Hello!” I roared, trying to inject cheerfulness into the hollow bellow. “How are you, professor?”

The answer came distinctly across the water:

“Who is that with you?”

My lips were buried in the megaphone; I strove to speak; I only produced a ghastly, chuckling sound.

“Of course you expect to tell the truth,” observed the pretty stenographer, quietly.

I removed my lips from the megaphone and looked around at her. She returned my gaze with a disturbing smile.

“I want to mitigate the blow,” I said, hoarsely. “Tell me how.”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” she said, sweetly.

“Well, I do!” I fairly barked, and seizing the megaphone again, I set it to my lips and roared, “My fiancée!”

“Good gracious!” exclaimed Miss Barrison, in consternation, “I thought you were going to tell the truth!”

“Don’t do that or you’ll upset us,” I snapped—”I’m telling the truth; I’ve engaged myself to you; I did it mentally before I bellowed.”

“But—”

“You know as well as I do what engagements mean,” I said, picking up the oars and digging them deep in the blue water.

She assented uncertainly.

A few minutes more of vigorous rowing brought us to a muddy landing under a cluster of tall palmettos, where a gasoline launch lay. Professor Farrago came down to the shore as I landed, and I walked ahead to meet him. He was the maddest man I ever saw. But I was his match, for I was desperate.

“What the devil—” he began, under his breath.

“Nonsense!” I said, deliberately. “An engaged woman is practically married already, because marriages are made in heaven.”

“Good Lord!” he gasped, “are you mad, Gilland? I sent for a stenographer—”

“Miss Barrison is a stenographer,” I said, calmly; and before he could recover I had presented him, and left them face to face, washing my hands of the whole affair.

Unloading the boat and carrying the luggage up under the palms, I heard her saying:

“No, I am not in the least afraid of snakes, and I am quite ready to begin my duties.”

And he: “Mr. Gilland is a young man who—er—lacks practical experience.”

And she: “Mr. Gilland has been most thoughtful for my comfort. The journey has been perfectly heavenly.”

And he, clumsily: “Ahem!—the—er—celestial aspect of your journey has—er—doubtless been colored by—er—the prospect of your—er—approaching nuptials—”

She, hastily: “Oh, I do not think so, professor.”

“Idiot!” I muttered, dragging the dog to the shore, where his yelps brought the professor hurrying.

“Is that the dog?” he inquired, adjusting his spectacles.

“That’s the dog,” I said. “He’s full of points, you see?”

“Oh,” mused the professor; “I thought he was full of—” He hesitated, inspecting the animal, who, nose to the ground, stood investigating a smell of some sort.

“See,” I said, with enthusiasm, “he’s found a scent; he’s trailing it already! Now he’s rolling on it!”

“He’s rolling on one of our concentrated food lozenges,” said the professor, dryly. “Tie him up, Mr. Gilland, and ask Mrs. Gilland to come up to camp. Your room is ready.”

“Rooms,” I corrected; “she isn’t Mrs. Gilland yet,” I added, with a forced smile.

“But you’re practically married,” observed the professor, “as you pointed out to me. And if she’s practically Mrs. Gilland, why not say so?”

“Don’t, all the same,” I snarled.

“But marriages are made in—”

I cast a desperate eye upon him.

From that moment, whenever we were alone together, he made a target of me. I never had supposed him humorously vindictive; he was, and his apparently innocent mistakes almost turned my hair gray.

But to Miss Barrison he was kind and courteous, and for a time over-serious. Observing him, I could never detect the slightest symptom of dislike for her sex—a failing which common rumor had always credited him with to the verge of absolute rudeness.

On the contrary, it was perfectly plain to anybody that he liked her. There was in his manner towards her a mixture of business formality and the deferential attitude of a gentleman.

We were seated, just before sunset, outside of the hut built of palmetto logs, when Professor Farrago, addressing us both, began the explanation of our future duties.

Miss Barrison, it appeared, was to note everything said by himself, making several shorthand copies by evening. In other words, she was to report every scrap of conversation she heard while in the Everglades. And she nodded intelligently as he finished, and drew pad and pencil from the pocket of her walking-skirt, jotting down his instructions as a beginning. I could see that he was pleased.