The chart that should have come in the second boat--with Tommy, alas, and Bilkins--was missing, but I remembered pretty well the lay of the land and knew that the island area began only a short distance south of our Cove. This I discussed with Smilax, who added light by his general knowledge--hearsay, for the most part. Yet when I suggested leaving our things cached where they were while we made a reconnoissance, he strenuously objected. "Lady maybe fifteen, twenty, mile 'way," he said. "We take camp 'long." "That's very well if you take it," I laughed, "but I've no idea of lugging that stuff half over Florida. Why not carry the things we need?" "Maybe need all," he answered, then smiled: "Camp light." At this he arose with a subtle power that reminded me of a huge black leopard and began making our things into a pack. Never had I seen, anywhere from Newfoundland to the Rockies, a bundle of duffle more skillfully arranged, and I said with no small degree of admiration: "I'd take off my hat to you, Smilax, if the storm hadn't blown it away!" He grinned, feeling the praise if not understanding its medium; then asked: "We go now?" "Let's wait half an hour to see if the _Whim_ comes in sight," I told him. "There's a lot to talk over, anyway, before we start. For one thing, if we get separated how shall we find each other?" "If you lose me, you hunt good place to wait, and wait. Me find you." For some time we discussed other details. Finally I asked: "How far down in those islands do you think they are?" He was sitting with his knees drawn up, his arms crossed upon them, and now let his forehead, too, rest there in meditation. "One place," he slowly answered, "no white hunter ever get. Injuns know it, but 'fraid to go 'cause evil spirit live there--near mouth of river Seminole call Il-lit; in white man tongue, mean Death. Me think maybe find 'em there." "Death river's a good place for that old scoundrel to hang out," I agreed. "How far?" "Maybe fifteen mile, maybe ten, maybe twenty; no can say. We see." "By the way, Smilax, how do you say 'damn old scoundrel' in Seminole?" He raised his head and appreciatively grinned, answering: "Hal-wak esta-had-kee, mean 'bad white man.'" "That's neither bad nor short enough. What else?" "Host-cope-e-taw, mean thief." "Good but too long. I want something I can remember; to christen him, understand? What's your shortest word?" "Shee." "That's more like it. What's 'shee' mean?" "Feathers." "But, hell, Smilax," I burst out laughing, "there'd be no sense in calling him feathers!" "Efaw," he said again, "mean dog; kotee, toad; chesshe, rat. Maybe him dog-toad-rat!" "That only begins to be him," I declared, with the same glorious contempt for pronouns. "In the prospective waters of Death river I christen him Efaw Kotee, the dog-toad!"--But in my heart I offered an apology to the canine family, many of whose sons and daughters have been among my most loyal friends.