This Paying Teller had worked so hard and so rapidly at his business for several years, and had paid out so much of his health and strength, that it was necessary for him to receive large deposits of these essentials before he could go to work again. But the peculiar habits of his 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 window and proceed to cash it, sometimes astonishing you by the amount of small change he would spread out before you. When he heard of our intention to cruise on Indian River he wished to join his group to our party, and as he was a good fellow we were glad to have him do so. His wife had been, or was still, a schoolteacher. Her bright and cheerful face glistened with information. The contemplative young man was a distant connection of the Teller, and his first name being Quincy, was commonly called Quee. If he had wanted to know any of the many things the little teacher wished to tell he would have been a happy youth; but his contemplation seldom crystallized into a knowledge of what he did want to know. "And how can I," she once said to Euphemia and myself, "be expected ever to offer him any light when he can never bring himself to actually roll up a question?" This was said while I was rolling a cigarette. The group was greatly given to writing in journals, and making estimates. Euphemia and I did little of this, as it was our holiday, but it was often pleasant to see the work going on. The business in which the Paying Teller was now engaged was the writing of his journal, and his wife held a pencil in her kidded fingers and a little blank-book on her knees. This was our first day upon the river. "Where are we?" asked Euphemia. "I know we are on the Indian River, but where is the Indian River?" "It is here," I said. "But where is here?" reiterated Euphemia. "There are only three places in the world," said the teacher, looking up from her book,--"here, there, and we don't know where. Every spot on earth is in one or the other of those three places." "As far as I am concerned," said Euphemia, "the Indian River is in the last place." "Then we must hasten to take it out," said the teacher, and she dived into the cabin, soon reappearing with a folding map of Florida. "Here," she said, "do you see that wide river running along part of the Atlantic coast of the State, and extending down as far as Jupiter Inlet? That is Indian River, and we are on it. Its chief characteristics are that it is not a river, but an arm of the sea, and that it is full of fish." "It seems to me to be so full," said I, "that there is not room for them all--that is, if we are to judge by the way the mullet jump out." "I think," said the teacher, making a spot with her pencil on the map, "that just now we are about here."