10 Days in Florida

"Is this Mr. Daniels?"

The busy man at the paper-littered desk swung around in his chair and treated the speaker and his three companions to a brief but keen appraising glance. Swift as it was, he noted that the questioner was a sturdy, well-built lad with a frank open face deeply tanned by wind and sun. His companions consisted of another boy about the same age but of slighter build, an elderly, stout, heavily-whiskered man with the unmistakable stamp of the sailor in his bearing, and a little negro lad with a grinning, good-humored face. All three bore an appearance of health and cleanliness and their clothes, though old and worn, were neatly patched and as spotless as soap and water could make them.

"Daniels is my name," he replied, briskly, "what can I do for you?"

"We want a chance to fish for you, sir."

"Have you had any experience?"

"My companions have never fished any but I put in a couple of seasons at it. We all know how to handle boats and none of us are afraid of work," declared the spokesman of the little party, eagerly.

"I seldom engage green men," said Mr. Daniels, "but I will talk with you a little further, later," he added, hastily, as he saw the look of disappointment on the four faces. "I am a pretty busy man now. I have got to get some letters off on the morning train. Look around and amuse yourselves for half an hour and I will then be at liberty."

The four strangers needed no second bidding. Even as they had been waiting, they had cast interested glances through the open office door at the busy scene in the immense building adjoining. Now, as Mr. Daniels turned back to his desk, they stepped out into the great barn-like room and gazed around with eager curiosity. Everywhere was bustle and hustle. At the far end of the building, a dozen wagons were unloading their burdens in great glistening heaps upon the clean water-deluged floor, fish, fish, thousands upon thousands of them. In one corner rose a great mound of trout, a simmering mass of white, bronze, and rainbow spots, close to these lay a heap of Spanish mackerel, beautiful in their rich coloring of silver and gold; just beyond the mackerel rose a greenish-blue pile of hundreds of blue fish and close beside these lay a snow-like mountain of ocean mullet, while further on, was heaped up, a miscellaneous collection of finny creatures, sea bass, gorgeous in their rich golden bronze, quaint bird-like sea robins, lacey-winged flying fish, repulsive looking flounders, and a hundred and one humble little dwellers of the sea that had fallen victims to the all-embracing nets. Down the length of the room, groups of men were working frantically to lessen the rapidly growing mounds of fish. It almost seemed a combat between the stream of loaded wagons and the busy workers. One group labored furiously at the heaps, shoveling the fish into big, swinging, scoop-like scales. As soon as the scales showed two hundred pounds, they were swung forward to another group and their contents dumped on the floor. This group, with skillful, flying hands, packed the fish in layers into empty barrels. For every layer of fish, a hurrying line of men dumped in a huge shovelful of chopped ice. As soon as it was filled, the barrel was taken in charge by other waiting hands. The head nailed in, it was rolled out on a platform at the far end where a car lay waiting on a side track to hurry it away to the fish-hungry folks of the northern cities.

The little negro lad gazed at the busy scene with distended eyes.

"Massa Chas, Massa Chas," he exclaimed, at last, "dar ain't no use ob you white chillens trying to catch no fish."

"Why, Chris?" questioned the larger lad.

"'Cause dey's done cotched dem all. Dar can't be many left, Massa Chas."

"Nonsense, Chris, there's as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it."

"Maybe so," said the little negro, doubtfully, "but I reckon dar ain't so many ob dem."

"You can not prove there isn't," laughed Charley.

"May be not," said the little negro, with dignity, "but you-alls had ought to take a cullard gentleman's word widout any proof."

"So I will, Chris," agreed the white lad, with a twinkle in his eye, "but there is Mr. Daniels beckoning to us. Let's see what he has to say."

"Take a chair and I will talk with you, now," said Mr. Daniels as they re-entered the office. "Now, first, I would like to know what has given you and your friends this fishing idea. Fishermen are a pretty rough class as a rule and you all seem fitted for a better class of work. Tell me something about yourselves, please."

"There isn't much to tell, sir," said the boy spokesman, modestly. "We four have been comrades for several years and we hate to separate now. We were sponge fishing out of Tarpon Springs but we lost our schooner through trouble with our crew. We saved only the clothes on our backs. We have to get something to do right off. Fishing seems to be the only thing in this part of the state that we would be able to work at and keep together. We heard of you, sir, in Tarpon Springs. We arrived here at Clearwater this morning. In fact, we came here direct from the station."

There was a curious gleam in Mr. Daniels' eye as he listened to this terse, business-like explanation. "What kind of work have you done besides sponging?" he questioned.

"We have been kind of Jack-Of-All-Trades," smiled the lad. "We have raised truck on the East Coast, fished for pearls in the West Indies, hunted plume birds in the Everglades, and gathered wreckage on the Atlantic beaches."

"Your names?" demanded Mr. Daniels, eagerly.

"My name is Charley West, sir. This is my chum, Walter Hazard; this gentleman is our good friend, Captain Westfield, and this," indicating the little negro with a smiling nod, "is Mr. Christopher Columbus."