XIII.
The letter that started me—I was going to say startled
me, but only imaginative people are startled—the letter, then, that started
me from Bronx Park to the South I print without the permission of my superior,
Professor Farrago. I have not obtained his permission, for the somewhat
exciting reason that nobody knows where he is. Publicity being now recognized
as the annihilator of mysteries, a benevolent purpose alone inspires me
to publish a letter so strange, so pathetically remarkable, in view of
what has recently occurred. As I say, I had only just returned from Java
with a valuable collection of undescribed isopods—an order of edriophthalmous
crustaceans with seven free thoracic somites furnished with fourteen legs—and
I beg my reader’s pardon, but my reader will see the necessity for the
author’s absolute accuracy in insisting on detail, because the story that
follows is a dangerous story for a scientist to tell, in view of the vast
amount of nonsense and fiction in
circulation masquerading as stories of scientific adventure.
I was, therefore, anticipating a delightful summer’s work with pen and
microscope, when on April 1st I received the following extraordinary letter
from Professor Farrago:
“In Camp, Little Sprite Lake, “Everglades, Florida, March 15, 1902.
“My Dear Mr. Gilland,—On receipt of this communication you will immediately
secure for me the following articles:
“One complete outfit of woman’s clothing.
“One camera.
“One light steel cage, large enough for you to stand in,
“One stenographer (male sex).
“One five-pound steel tank, with siphon and hose attachment.
“One rifle and ammunition.
“Three ounces rosium oxyde.
“One ounce chlorate strontium.
“You will then, within twenty-four hours, set out with the stenographer
and the supplies mentioned and join me in camp on Little Sprite Lake. This
order is formal and admits of no delay. You will appreciate the necessity
of absolute and unquestioning obedience when I tell you that I am practically
on the brink of the most astonishing discovery recorded in natural history
since Monsieur Zani discovered the purple-spotted zoombok in Nyanza; and
that I depend upon you and your zeal and fidelity for success.
“I dare not, lest my letter fall into unscrupulous hands, convey to you
more than a hint of what lies before us in these uncharted solitudes of
the Everglades.
“You must read between the lines when I say that because one can see through
a sheet of glass, the glass is none the less solid and palpable. One can
see through it—if that is also seeing it, but one can nevertheless hold
it and feel it and receive from it sensations of cold or heat according
to its temperature.
“Certain jellyfish are absolutely transparent when in the water, and one
can only know of their presence by accidental contact, not by sight.
“Have you ever thought that possibly there might exist larger and more
highly organized creatures transparent to eyesight, yet palpable to touch?
“Little Sprite Lake is the jumping-off place; beyond lie the Everglades,
the outskirts of which are haunted by the Seminoles, the interior of which
have never been visited by man, as far as we know.
“As you are aware, no general survey of Florida has yet been made; there
exist no maps of the Everglades south of Okeechobee; even Little Sprite
Lake is but a vague blot on our maps. We know, of course, that south of
the eleven thousand square miles of fresh water which is called Lake Okeechobee
the Everglades form a vast, delta-like projection of thousands and thousands
of square miles. Darkest Africa is no longer a mystery; but the Everglades
to-day remain the sombre secret of our continent. And, to-day, this unknown
expanse of swamps, barrens, forests, and lagoons is greater than in the
days of De Soto, because the entire region has been slowly rising.
“All this, my dear sir, you already know, and I ask your indulgence for
recalling the facts to your memory. I do it for this reason—the search
for what I am seeking may lead us to utter destruction; and therefore my
formal orders to you should be modified to this extent:—do you volunteer?
If you volunteer, my orders remain; if not, turn this letter over to Mr.
Kingsley, who will find for me the companion I require.
“In the event of your coming, you must break your journey at False Cape
and ask for an old man named Slunk. He will give you a packet; you will
give him a dollar, and drive on to Cape Canaveral, and you will do what
is to be done there. From there to Fort Kissimmee, to Okeechobee, traversing
the lake to the Rita River, where I have marked the trail to Little Sprite.
“At Little Sprite I shall await you; beyond that
point a merciful Providence alone can know what awaits us.
“Yours fraternally,
Farrago.
“P.S.—I think that you had better make your will, and suggest the same
idea to the stenographer who is to accompany you. F.”
And that was the letter I received while seated comfortably
on the floor of my work-room, surrounded by innocent isopods, all patiently
awaiting scientific investigation.
And this is what I did: Within twenty-four hours I had assembled the supplies
required—the cage, the woman’s clothing, tank, arms and ammunition, and
the chemicals; I had secured accommodations, for that evening, on the Florida,
Volusia, and Fort Lauderdale Railway as far as Citron City; and I had been
interviewing
stenographers all day long, the result of an innocently
worded advertisement in the daily newspapers.
It was now very close to the time when I must summon a cab and drive to
the ferry; and yet I was still shy one stenographer.
I had seen scores; they simply would not listen to the proposition. “Why
does a gentleman in the backwoods of Florida want a stenographer?” they
demanded; and as I had not the faintest idea, I could only say so. I think
the majority interviewed concluded I had escaped from a State institution.
As the time for departure approached I became desperate, urging and beseeching
applicants to accompany me; but neither sympathy for my instant need nor
desire for salary moved them.
I waited until the last moment, hoping against hope. Then, with a groan
of despair, I seized luggage and raincoat, made for the door and flung
it open, only to find myself face to face with an attractive young girl,
apparently on the point of pressing the electric button.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “but I have a train to catch.”
She was noticeably attractive in her storm-coat and pretty hat, and I really
was sorry—so sorry that I added:
“I have about twenty-seven seconds to place at your service before I go.”
“Twenty will be sufficient,” she replied, pleasantly. “I saw your advertisement
for a stenographer—”
“We require a man,” I interposed, hastily.
“Have you engaged him?”
“N-no.”
We looked at each other.
“You wouldn’t accept, anyway,” I began.
“How do you know?”
“You wouldn’t leave town, would you?”
“Yes, if you required it.”
“What? Go to Florida?”
“Y-yes—if I must.”
“But think of the alligators! Think of the snakes—big, bitey snakes!”
“Gracious!” she exclaimed, eyes growing bigger.
“Indians, too!—unreconciled, sulky Seminoles! Fevers! Mud-puddles! Spiders!
And only fifty dollars a week—”
“I—I’ll go,” she stammered.
“Go?” I repeated, grimly; “then you’ve exactly two and three-quarter seconds
left for preparations.”
Instinctively she raised her little gloved hand and patted her hair. “I’m
ready,” she said, unsteadily.
“One extra second to make your will,” I added, stunned by her self-possession.
“I—I have nothing to leave—nobody to leave it to,” she said, smiling; “I
am ready.”
I took that extra second myself for a lightning course in reflection upon
effects and consequences.
“It’s silly, it’s probably murder,” I said, “ but you’re engaged! Now we
must run for it!”
And that is how I came to engage the services of Miss Helen Barrison as
stenographer.
Go to Chapter
Fourteen..... ..
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