It was lucky for the captain that he was wise to the resources of the Florida coast. A stranger to the country would not have known where to look for food and would likely have soon perished of hunger. Although he had no other weapon than his sheath knife, he went about his task with the air of a man who was confident of success. Before leaving the island, he cut a long, straight cypress pole and sharpened one end to a keen point. With this in his hand, he made his way down to the Gulf. The tide was high again but there was a mass of rock some two hundred feet from shore which protruded a couple of feet above the water. Removing his shoes, he waded cautiously out, prodding the bottom before him with his pole and picking his way carefully to avoid stepping on a stingaree.

The rock reached, he perched himself on its edge and sat peeping down into the water which was clear as crystal. He had not long to wait. In a few minutes a fish swam slowly past close to the rock, and, taking careful aim, the old sailor dove his rude spear down with all his force. Its point struck just behind the fish's head, passing entirely through its body. It died without a struggle, and the captain lifted it out upon the rock with a shout of triumph. It was a beautifully-specked sea trout about three feet in length and weighed at least twelve pounds. Although there was plenty of other fish within sight, the trout was enough for their present needs and, scaling and washing it carefully, the captain waded ashore with his prize. But he was not yet quite satisfied. Laying his fish down upon a bunch of clean sea moss, he examined carefully the muddy beach near the water's edge. Here and there, tiny jets of water squirted up from the mud, and, where they seemed to be most numerous, he began to dig. In a few minutes he had unearthed a couple of dozen large clams. With these and the fish, and a huge armful of moist sea moss in his arms, he made his way back to camp where Chris was eagerly awaiting his return.

"I sho' wish I could get up from hyah," mourned the little negro. "Golly! I reckon, I'd show you how to cook dat fish so dat you nebber could eat nuff ob hit."

"You jes' lie still thar," commanded the captain. "I'm a Cape Cod man, an' thar ain't any cook living that can show a Cape Cod man how to cook this kind of grub. You just watch and learn somethin'."

Chris watched him with professional jealousy and interest. He firmly believed that no one on earth could cook as good as he but he reluctantly admitted to himself that the old sailor made his preparations with considerable promise of success.

First, he scooped out a hole in the ground about three feet deep and two feet square and kindled a small fire in the bottom upon which he placed a layer of small rocks, as soon as it was going good, then, he paused to remark regretfully,

"I wish we had some potatoes. I never heard of a clam bake yet without potatoes."

"Dar's something jes' as good as 'taters," declared Chris, pointing to a low-growing plant. "Jes' you dig up some ob dem roots an' try 'em. Hit's wild cassava, an' hit taste jes' like Irish 'taters."

The captain dug down with his sheath knife and unearthed several tubers a couple of feet in length and about three inches in circumference. He regarded them dubiously, but, on Chris' repeated assurances that they were good and wholesome, he cut off several pieces and washed them carefully. By the time this was done, the fire in the pit had burned low, and the stones were smoking hot. Cutting several broad, green, palmetto leaves, he laid them on the stones and spread over them a thin layer of the moist sea moss. Upon the moss he laid the fish and over it spread another layer of moss upon which he placed the clams, covering them with more moss, upon which he placed the cassava, and, piling a thick layer of sea grass over the whole, built a small fire on top of it. Then he sat down and watched the fire while he and Chris waited hungrily the slow cooking of their meal. At last, the captain declared that it must be done. The fire on top was raked away, the contents of the pit were taken out and placed upon green, clean palmetto leaves, and the two castaways fell-to with appetites sharpened by their long wait. And what a feast it was,—the clams cooked to perfection in their own juice, the fish juicy and delicious, the cassava snow-white and mealy and all rendered doubly delicious by the salt spicy taste of the seaweed in which they had been cooked. And what a joy it was to feel that the worst of their troubles were over. Chris getting better, the boys soon to be back with help, all the worry and anxiety they had suffered past, the next few days to see them all safely back in Tarpon, where they would all wait in comfort and safety, ready to claim their ship when the Greeks brought her in, and, after that, they would return for the gold and with it they would secure the many things they had longed for all their lives.

Surely the prospect was bright enough to make the two lonely castaways chatter brightly, cheerfully, and hopefully over their evening meal. They could not see the dangers, worries, and misfortunes yet to befall them, and it was well they could not for it would have robbed the two of the happiest hour they had had in many days.

At last, the feast was over and Chris had paid the cook the highest compliment of which he could conceive.

"Golly! Massa Capt., you cooked dem tings might nigh as good as I could have done."

Although there were many things which the captain wished to do, darkness was fast coming on and he had to complete his final preparations for the night. First, he cut a lot of small boughs which he piled up under the shelter close to Chris to serve as his own bed. This done, he gathered piles of wood which he spread in a circle around the big cedar and set on fire to protect them both from chance visits of snakes during the night. By the time this was finished, it was dark and he crept in under the shelter close to his dusky little companion in misfortune, and, after a short, simple prayer full of thankfulness for their deliverance from the dangers that had threatened them, he quickly fell into the deep sleep of total exhaustion. But sleep did not come so readily to Chris. He had slept, or been unconscious, much of the time since his accident and the stimulating effect of the palmetto medicine helped to drive slumber away from him. He lay very quiet to avoid disturbing the old sailor's rest, but, try as he would, he could not get to sleep. At last he gave up the attempt and lay with eyes wide open looking out at the stars and the twinkling camp-fires. From the marsh about came strange noises of the night, the croaking of multitudes of frogs, the cackle of marsh hens, the squawking of cranes, and the rustling of the marsh grass in the wind. Slowly the circle of fire died down, smouldered and went out. Only the big main camp-fire was left a glowing mass of embers.

Suddenly the wakeful little negro's ears caught another sound mingled with the voices of the night,—a slow, heavy, creeping noise. For a time he lay quiet listening, his hearing strained to the utmost to catch the new strange sound. He waited until there was no doubt that it was close at hand and steadily drawing nearer, then, he reached over and shook his snoring companion.

"Wake up, Massa Captain," he cried, "dar's some wild beast a creepin' into de camp."

"I hear it," agreed the captain, instantly wide awake. "Jes' lay still, lad, an' don't be frightened. I'll stir up the fire a bit, that will run it off."

He arose from his couch and strode boldly for the smouldering fire.

"Look out!" Chris yelled, suddenly, "Foah de Lawd's sake, look out!" His keen eyes had caught a glimpse of a black shape passing between the old sailor and the mass of glowing embers, but his warning came too late,—the captain was upon the moving shape before he saw it.

A swishing noise rent the air, a loud thud, the old sailor was knocked backward several feet flat on the ground, and, with a loud, sharp bellowing, the mysterious visitor glided away into the darkness.

"Is you hurt? Is you hurt, Massa Cap?" cried the terror-stricken lad.

"A little bit, a little bit," called back the old sailor, his voice hoarse with pain.

He came creeping back into the shelter on hands and knees.

"It was a big bull alligator," he explained, painfully. "Must have been twelve feet long. It caught me a fearful blow on the legs with its tail. I hope thar ain't no bones broken but it feels as though thar was."

A close examination proved his fears groundless, but the terrible blow had done all but break the bones. In spite of the pain, however, he crawled forth again and replenished the fire, but he was faint and giddy with pain before he succeeded in getting back into the shelter and stretched out on his couch once more.

"I reckon, I'll be all right by morning," he said, hopefully, "but I don't calculate I'll be able to sleep any more to-night, my legs hurt too bad for that. Don't make any difference though, I 'low I've had enough sleep for one night—it can't be more than a couple of hours 'till daylight."

It proved to be even less and with the coming of light he removed his trousers and examined his limbs anxiously. He had indeed received a terrible blow from the prowling monster, both legs were bruised and swollen where the tail had struck it and it seemed a miracle that the bones had not been broken. It caused him exquisite pain to rise upon his feet, but there was work which had to be done, and, in spite of his suffering, he must do it. So, hiding his pain as well as he could, he prepared to sally forth to secure food for the day.

But in spite of all his efforts he could not entirely hide his intense suffering.

"You jes' lay down an' let me go out an' find grub, Massa Cap," Chris pleaded. "I feels jes' as well as can be again now."

But the sturdy old sailor would not listen to his pleadings.