loud shouts, when an alligator was seen lying upon the shore, or a big turtle was sunning itself on a log.  He was a Northerner, they knew from his general make-up, and a friend of Tom Hardy, the captain said, when questioned with regard to him.  This last was sufficient to atone for any proclivities he might have antagonistic to the South.  Tom Hardy, although living in Georgia, was well known in Florida.  To be his friend was to be somebody; and two or three attempts at conversation were made in the course of the morning.  One man, bolder than the rest, told him it was a fine day and a fine trip, but that the “Hatty” was getting a little too passee for real comfort.  At the word passee the stranger looked up with something like interest, and admitted that the boat was passee, and the day fine, and the trip, too.  A cigar was next offered, but politely declined, and then the attempt at an acquaintance ceased on the part of the first to make it.  Later on an old Georgian planter, garrulous and good-humored, swore he’d find out what stuff the Yankee was made of, and why he was down there where few of his kind ever came.  His first move was the offer of tobacco, with the words:  “How d’ye, sir?  Have a chew?”

The stranger’s head went up a little higher than its wont, and the proud look on the pale face deepened as he declined the tobacco civilly, as he had the cigar.

“Wall, now, don’t chew tobacky?  You lose a good deal.  I couldn’t live without it.  Sorter soothin’, an’ keeps my jaws goin’, and when I’m so full of vim,—­mad, you know,—­that I’m fit to bust, why, I spit and spit,—­backy juice in course,—­till I spit it all out,” the Georgian said, taking an immense chew, and sitting down by the stranger, who gave no sign that he knew of his proximity, but still kept his eyes on the river as if absorbed in the scenery.

The Georgian was not to be easily rebuffed.  Crossing his legs and planting his big hat on his knees, he went on: 

“You are from the North, I calculate?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so.  We can mostly tell ’em.  From Boston, I reckon?”

“No.”

“New York, mabby?  No?  Chicago?  No?  Wall, where in—­” the Georgian stopped, checked by a look in the bluish-gray eyes which seldom failed in its effect.

Evidently the stranger didn’t choose to tell where he lived, but the Georgian, though somewhat subdued, was not wholly silenced, and he continued:  “Ever in Florida before?”

“No.”

“Wall, I s’pose you’re takin’ a little pleasure trip like the rest of us?”

To this there was no response, the stranger thinking with bitterness that his trip was anything but one of pleasure.  There was still one chord left to pull and that was Tom Hardy, who in a way was voucher for this interloper, and the Georgian’s next question was:  “Do you know Tom well?”

“Do you mean, Mr. Hardy?” the stranger asked, and the Georgian replied.  “In course, but I allus calls him Tom.  Have known him since he wore gowns.  My plantation jines old man Hardy’s.”