Produced by Suzanne Shell, GF Untermeyer and PG Distributed Proofreaders
1891, 1894
The sun shone warm and soft, as it shines in winter time in thesemi-tropics. The wind blew strong, as it blows whenever and whereverit listeth. Seven pelicans labored slowly through the air. A flock ofducks rose from the surface of the river. A school of mullet, disturbedby a shark, or some other unscrupulous pursuer, sprang suddenly out ofthe water just before us, and fell into it again like the splashing ofa sudden shower.
I lay upon the roof of the cabin of a little yacht. Euphemia stoodbelow, her feet upon the mess-chest, and her elbows resting on the edgeof the cabin roof. A sudden squall would have unshipped her; still, ifone would be happy, there are risks that must be assumed. At the openentrance of the cabin, busily writing on a hanging-shelf that served asa table, sat a Paying Teller. On the high box which during most of theday covered our stove was a little lady, writing in a note-book. On theforward deck, at the foot of the mast, sat a young man in a state ofplacidness. His feet stuck out on the bowsprit, while his mildlycontemplative eyes went forth unto the roundabout.
At the tiller stood our guide and boatman, his sombre eye steady on thesouth-by-east. Around the horizon of his countenance there spread adark and six-days' beard, like a slowly rising thunder-cloud; ever andanon there was a gleam of white teeth, like a bright break in the sky,but it meant nothing. During all our trip, the sun never shone in thatface. It never stormed, but it was always cloudy. But he was the bestboatman on those waters, and when he stood at the helm we knew wesailed secure. We wanted a man familiar with storms and squalls, and ifthis familiarity had developed into facial sympathy, it mattered not.We could attend to our own sunshine. At his feet sat humbly his boy oftwelve, whom we called "the crew." He was making fancy knots in a bitof rope. This and the occupation of growing up were the only labors inwhich he willingly engaged.
Euphemia and I had left Rudder Grange, to spend a month or two inFlorida, and we were now on a little sloop-yacht on the bright watersof the Indian River. It must not be supposed that, because we had aPaying Teller with us, we had set up a floating bank. With this PayingTeller, from a distant State, we had made acquaintance on our firstentrance into Florida. He was travelling in what Euphemia called "agroup," which consisted of his wife,—the little lady with thenote-book,—the contemplative young man on the forward deck, andhimself.
This Paying Teller had worked so hard and so rapidly at his businessfor several years, and had paid out so much of his health and strength,that it was necessary for him to receive large deposits of theseessentials before he could go to work again. But the peculiar habits ofhis profession never left him. He was continually paying out something.If you presented a conversational check to him in the way of a remark,he would, figuratively speaking, immediately jump to his little windowand proceed to cash it, sometimes astonishing you by the amount ofsmall change he would spread out before you.<