w pressure that seems to center around the
_Agnes_. Old Hickory is off in one end of the boat, puffin' at his
cigar savage; Auntie's at the other, glarin' into a book she's
pretendin' to read; Mrs. Mumford is crochetin' silent; Professor
Leonidas Barr is riggin' up some kind of a scientific dip net; J.
Dudley Simms is down in the main saloon playin' solitaire; and Rupert
sticks to the upper deck, where he's out of the way.

Vee and me? Oh, we got hold of a map, and was tryin' to locate just
where we were.

"See, that must be Sanibel Island--the long green streak off there,"
says she, tracin' it out with a pink forefinger. "And that is Pine
Island Sound, with the Caloos--Caloosa--"

"Now sneeze and you'll get the rest of it," says I.

"Caloosahatchee. There!" says she. "What a name to give a river! But
isn't it wonderful down here, Torchy?"

"Perfectly swell, so far as the scenery goes," says I.

Course, it's a good deal like this 79-cent pastel art stuff you see in
the Sixth Avenue department stores. The water looks like it had been
laid on by Bohemian glass blowers who didn't care how many colors they
used. The little islands near by, with clumps of feather-duster palms
stickin' up from 'em, was a bit stagey and artificial. The far-off
shores was too vivid a green to be true, and the high white clouds was
the impossible kind that Maxfield Parrish puts on magazine covers.
And, with that dazzlin' sun blazin' overhead it all made your eyes
blink.

Even the birds don't seem real. Not far from us was a row of these
here pelicans--foolish things with bills a yard long and so heavy they
have to rest 'em on their necks. They're all strung out along the edge
of the channel, havin' a fish gorge. And, believe me, when a pelican
goes fishin' he don't make any false moves. He'll sit there squintin'
solemn at the water as if he was sayin' his prayers, then all of a
sudden he'll make a jab with that face extension of his, and when he
pulls it out and tosses it up you can bet your last jitney he's added
something substantial to the larder. One gulp and it's all over. I
watched one old bird tuck away about ten fish in as many minutes.

"Gee!" says I. "Every day is Friday with him. Or maybe he's got a
contract to supply Fulton Market."

The entertainin' part of the performance, though, was when the bunch
took it into their heads to move on, and started to fly. They've got
little short legs and wide feet that