Old Sam was up with the sun, but it was not until the big gourd he had found the night before was steaming with a luxurious duck stew that he awoke the tired lads.

“How in the world did you concoct this stew, Sam?” Bill waved his wooden spoon—handmade by the old darkey—toward the savory-smelling gourd, which was their common pot.

“But how come, Marse Bill?”

“This stew is boiled isn’t it?”

“Dat’s right, suh, it am.”

“Well, what I want to know is how you were able to make a stew over the fire without burning the gourd.”

“Dat stew was made in the gourd, jes’ as you say,” he chuckled. “But de gourd warn’t over the fire, Marse Bill.”

“Quit your kidding, Sam—and tell me.”

“I done hung the gourd on a low branch yonder, suh, after I put in the meat an’ water. Nex’ I heated two stones over the fire and when dey was real hot, I dropped dem in the stew. Soon as dey got cool, I put in two mo’ hot stones—”

“And that,” broke in Osceola, “is the oldest method of heating water known to man!”

Bill shook his head. “Well, when we left the workings, I thought I was supposed to run this show,” he said gravely. “Guess I was a bit high-hat about it, too. And now, everywhere I turn, you two teach me something new. I’ve certainly learned my lesson.—Let’s get to work—I can use brawn if not brain!”

There followed a day of strenuous labor for all of them. The top of the log above the long grooves they had cut the afternoon before, was beaten in with the stone hammer. When it was at last removed, Bill took his wooden adze that he had hardened in the fire, and began to scrape the rotten wood from the inner shell of the canoe. Meanwhile Osceola and Sam whittled out two blocks of soft wood wherewith to plug the ends of the open log. These were wedged into place and moss hammered into the seams. Then, thwarts were fitted and the canoe sunk in shallow water to give the seams at bow and stern a chance to swell. After supper, all three busied themselves making paddles.

Next day they were up before dawn and hauled out their canoe. After a night’s submersion, she appeared to be absolutely watertight. At an early hour, they got aboard, with the remains of their slender store of provisions, and pushed out through the saw grass.

Bill took his place amidships, with Sam in the bow, and the young Seminole wielded a paddle in the stern. “I know that you’re skipper of this cruise, Osceola,” he flung the words over his shoulder, “but I think we ought to go out to the wreck of the plane before we leave this locality for keeps. What do you say?”

“It’s okay with me. I don’t expect we’ll find much. The water is pretty deep in this part of the Glades.”

“Do you think you can find the spot? It’s more than I could do.”

“Oh, yes, easily enough. I was raised in these swamps, remember. I know exactly where the amphibian nosed in.”

He swung the dugout to the left, and a few minutes later they came out of the high saw grass on to one of the myriad water leads that crisscross the Everglades in every direction. The grass near the Island had not been particularly dense; but now they noticed that the growth which lined the lane of open water was a ten-foot jungle of stiff, saw-toothed stems. Even the lead they were following was not free from obstruction, for huge patches of water lilies choked the way, and the power needed to force the canoe through the tangled masses of blooms came only by back-breaking effort.

“Bill, I think we’ll have to pass up the wreck,” declared Osceola from the stern of their little craft. “It would take us all day to push our way through the grass and we’d probably get some bad cuts into the bargain. It isn’t worth it.”

“I thought we might be able to salvage something,” said Bill, resting his paddle on the side of the dugout.

“No chance of that, anyway. The chances are that nothing but the tailplane is above water after her nosedive. These swamps are dangerous to wade about in, even if there is a high bottom over there, which I doubt.”

“He means de ’gators and snakes,” Sam explained fearfully. “We alls been lucky so far, but let me tell you, Marse Bill, dese Glades is sure plumb full o’ vipers. Dis nigger ain’t gwine to do no mo’ wadin’ unless he has to. Unh-unh! Not me!”

Bill grinned. “I retire under force of argument,” he said with mock resignation. “Let’s be on our way again. I think I can see clear water ahead.”

For the next half hour they slaved through the lilies, and in the stretch of open water finally reached, Bill spoke again.

“I know you’re making for the southeast, Osceola. And I suppose you’ve got a plan. But I should have thought you’d point north. Isn’t there an automobile causeway that crosses the Everglades somewhere up there?”

Osceola nodded. “There is, Bill, but I am going to make for the home of my people. I figure that we can get down there in three or four days, if our luck holds. It would take us much longer to reach the causeway.”

“Good enough! Swell plan, I should say.”

“But that’s only half the plan, Bill.”

“What’s the other half?”

“I’ll tell you when I’ve talked with my people. I’m not trying to be cagy, but I’ll need their consent to put it over—and I don’t want to get up false hopes, you know. You don’t mind, if I keep it to myself till I’m more certain?”

“Of course not. I’ve been doing a little thinking on my own. And maybe I can spring mine when you come across with yours. If these all-fired pond lilies would only—”

Bill never finished that sentence. There was a stirring among the lilypads just aft of Bill’s paddle. He caught a fleeting glimpse of what he took to be a gnarled tree trunk among the blooms overside. Then the stern of the dugout rose in the air, toppled over, and clutching wildly at the gunwale, he catapulted into the lilies.

“‘Gator!” yelled a voice which he took to be Sam’s, and the water closed over his head.

Bill landed on the small of his back, but just as soon as he was able to get his balance under water, he struck upwards with both hands and feet. If a rising alligator had been the cause of the canoe’s capsizing, he wasn’t staying in that unlikely spot!—not any longer than needful.

But instead of shooting to the surface, as he naturally expected, Bill found himself held fast in an interminable network of stems and roots. The horrible sensation of strangling sent all thought of ’gators, poisonous snakes out of his head. Air—he must have air. Nothing else mattered now. He tore at the tangled stems with the vicious energy of a madman.

At last, his lungs bursting, his head popped up through the pads. As he shook the water from his eyes, Sam’s black pate appeared above the surface.

“Whar de ’gator?” he spluttered.

“Search me,” gasped Bill. “I didn’t even see him.”

The dugout floated bottom upwards a few yards away. From beyond it came Osceola’s voice.

“Hey, you two! This is no swimming pool. Quit swapping yarns and give me a hand with this canoe!”

“You go, Marse Bill,” begged Sam. “I’se afraid dese here chaps will sink.” With an effort he raised his right hand above the water, and Bill saw that it grasped a duck. “I done tied dese here birds all together fore we shoved off,” explained the darkey. “Dey’s de first thing I grabbed when dat ol’ ’gator come up underneath de boat and turn us over. Dey like to drownded me down in de weeds, an’ it ain’t likely I’se gwine to turn ’em loose now to fix no dugout. Unh-unh! Not me!”

Bill, with an amused grunt, started swimming for the canoe in the middle of this narrative. But by the time he reached it, Osceola had righted it, and worked his way aboard by pulling himself up the rounded stern. When waist-high to the counter, he seemed to spring forward on his hands, spreading his legs at the same time so as to straddle both bulwarks. A second later he was sitting on the low thwart, holding out a helping hand to Bill.

“Gee, you’re an ace in the water, all right,” gasped Bill, once he was aboard. “Some day you’ve got to teach me that trick, Osceola.”

The Indian chuckled. “It takes little more than muscle, Bill, and a certain nicety of balance. You’ve got plenty of the first requirement, and the other is only a matter of practice.”

“Look, here comes the commissary—he’ll take a bit of hoisting!”

Osceola leaned overside and took the string of birds from Sam. “How you managed to hang on to these in the upset is beyond me,” he said, depositing them in the bottom of the canoe.

Sam was helped aboard.

“You can’t keep dis nigger from his dinner,” he grinned. “Dat is, no ’gator can’t. Did you see him, Marse Osceola? He was sure a big ol’ feller.”

“He sure was, Sam. Reckon he was as surprised as we were when the bunch of us came splashing in on top of him. I was glad to get out of the water, though. It’s not my idea of a happy death to form a meal for an alligator. It didn’t seem to worry you much. The way you and Bill were holding pleasant conversation out yonder was a temptation to any ’gator or his friends.”

“So that’s why you asked for help in righting the canoe?” Bill asked.

“You’ve guessed it. I’ve got my paddle, and while I collect the other two, I suggest that you clean the guns, Bill. Lucky they were strapped to us.” He ripped off the tail of his shirt and passed it over. “That will soon dry in the sun, and a gat that shoots is worth somebody else’s shirt any day in the week.”

“There’s one thing about traveling light,” admitted Bill, “and especially when your canoe turns over. If you haven’t anything to lose, you can’t lose it.”

“You is forgettin’ the grub, suh,” chimed in Sam.

“But you clung to that like a hero,” grinned Bill. “When we get to wherever we’re getting, I’ll pin a medal on you, Sam. Just now, I’m out of pins.”

“I know you is kiddin’ me,” returned the darkey, showing his teeth in a wide smile. “Some day mebbe I’ll hold you to dat promise, Marse Bill.”

“Okay, Sam. Pass over any hardware you may be toting. I want to clean it.”

That night, after, a weary day of paddling, they camped on an island which embraced several miles of dry land. Here Osceola shot a small deer, which they found a welcome change in diet, from the fish-tainted flesh of birds.

“There are just two things queer about this place,” remarked Bill as they rested beside the fire after supper.

“What are they?” asked the young Seminole chief.

“In every picture I’ve ever seen of the Florida swamps, they have snakes hanging in festoons from the trees—great, big fellows. Yet, so far, I haven’t seen a single one.”

“That’s because they don’t happen to roost in trees. Not in this state. That is, except in the artist’s imagination. There are plenty of snakes, though—rattlers, moccasins and the like. Never go into high grass on these islands, or you are not likely to come out alive. What’s the other queer thing?”

Bill stretched his arms above his head, and lay back comfortably on the warm earth. “Last night,” he yawned, “the mosquitoes nearly drove me crazy. Today there were very few, and tonight, I haven’t felt one. There’s been no wind to speak of—they can’t have been blown away.”

Osceola laughed. “These glades aren’t such bad places to live in. They have some advantages. Of course, it is a snake infested wilderness, but there is such a dearth of stagnant water that few breeding places are furnished for insects. You won’t find mosquitoes except along the borders. We are well into the interior of the Everglades, now, that’s why they’ve disappeared.”

“Three cheers and a tiger,” Bill applauded in a sleepy voice. “Good night, everybody—I’m off to bye-bye.”

The next three days were counterparts of the first, except that the party met with not a single mishap. Whenever possible they kept to the waterleads, and Bill soon grew sick of the sight of pond lilies. But at times it was necessary to pole their way through the sawgrass. Often the grass had to be cut away in front, and all three suffered from wounds made by its sharp-toothed edges.

About five o’clock on the fourth day of their journey, they came through half a mile of grass on to an open lead, free for once from lilies. This led toward a large island, little more than a mile away.

“Well, we’re here at last,” announced Osceola, as they rested from their labors.

“Here is right—but where?”

“Some of my people live on that island. We’ll be—home—in half an hour.”

“You certainly are a wonder!” cried his friend. “I never really thought you would be able to locate them in this wilderness.”

“If you asks me,” broke in Sam, “I says, let’s go! I never did think we’d get dis far without bein’ cotched back to those workin’s. But now, oh boy! Deer meat is all right an’ so am bird flesh. But I likes my vittles varied. Too much of a good thing am nothin’ more than too much. Let’s go—cause I’m hungry!”