But he was evidently not the only person astonished. Lillian saw him. She leaned from the carriage window and, for an instant, he thought she was about to call to him. Then she glanced up at the driver’s seat and said something to William. At once the bays began to trot and the carriage rolled swiftly past. But Hadley had looked up at the driver, too, and for the first time saw and recognized the person sitting beside William on the high perch. William was gorgeous in a maroon livery: the person beside him was in livery, also, and evidently acted as footman. But, despite his gay apparel, Hadley recognized this footman instantly. It was Alonzo Alwood, and as he gazed after the retreating carriage, the American youth was conscious that Lon had twisted around in his seat and was staring at him with scowling visage. [TO BE CONTINUED] In the Florida Everglades By William A. Stimpson “Good-by, fellows; don’t expect me back before supper time.” Waving his hand to his friends, Alfred Whyte pushed the bateau into the water, took his seat in the centre, and with a few strong, even strokes of the paddle sent the frail craft out of sight around a bend in the stream. It was on the edge of the Florida Everglades, those low, marshy tracts of swamp land that cover the whole of the lower end of the peninsula. Two New York boys, Willard King and Marvin Stebbins, had homesteaded a claim in the heart of the morass and were engaged in growing tomatoes for the northern markets. Alfred, a former schoolmate, was spending a few weeks with them in their southern home. The piece of land upon which the two northerners had settled was about fifty acres in extent. It rose, island-like, from out the midst of the network of little creeks and streams that crisscrossed in every direction and made a veritable land-and-water spider’s web of that part of the State. The tomato plants were set out in February and now, the first of April, the tomatoes had begun to turn red and were large enough to be picked. They had to be handled very carefully, wrapped in tissue paper, and packed in light wooden crates, so as to permit the process of ripening to be completed on the trip north. Picking and packing them was tedious and took considerable time. Both the young truck farmers had their hands full, and when a flock of wild ducks flew overhead on their way to the feeding grounds half a mile further inland, they merely directed a passing glance upward and then, stifling their sportsmen’s instinct, turned to their work again.