“Are there any more like it?” asked Ruth, for she, too, liked pretty things.

“There were only two, and I took one.”

“Then I’m going to get the other.  I can go without ice cream for a week to make up for it.  I never saw anything so pretty.”

“I’ll go with you.  She might charge you more than she did me.  I had to bargain with her.”

“I never knew you could do it,” laughed Ruth.

The two girls desisted from their packing long enough to slip out to the lingerie shop, where they spent more time and money than they intended.

The result was they had to hurry at the last minute, and their trunks were hardly strapped before the porter came to take them to the station.

The trip to Sycamore from St. Augustine was rather tedious and tiresome.  The railways in the interior of Florida were not like some of the fast lines, and there was not always the luxury of a parlor car.

Miss Pennington and Miss Dixon were rather inclined to murmur about this, but most of the others of the company took the inconveniences in good spirit, even Mr. Towne making the best of it.

He soon found that it was of little use to attire himself in the “height of fashion,” and gradually became more sensible in his adornment.

On the trip Russ managed to get a series of films showing different scenes, and at one lonely railroad station, where they had to wait several hours for a connecting train, a little scene was improvised that later was worked into a play.

The few “natives” around the place were much excited at some of the things the players did, and when Paul “saved” Mr. Towne from being run down by a freight train that came along, one grizzled old man was so worked up, thinking it all real, that he wanted to run for a doctor, when Mr. Towne pretended to be hurt.

“An’ they do that fer money?” this native inquired, when the matter had been explained to him.

“That’s what they do,” said Russ, who was putting away his camera.

“Wa’al, all I’ve got to say is if that’s what they call work—­I’d rather do nothin’,” was the caustic comment.

“And that’s what he jinerally does,” spoke another native, in a low voice.  “He’s never worked, an’ I guess he never will.”

“It would be pretty hard to get a moving picture of him, then,” laughed Russ.

Finally the train, which had been delayed by a slight accident, came along, and the weary players got aboard.  In due season they reached Sycamore, a little village near the shores of Lake Kissimmee.

Accommodations had been arranged for in advance, and soon the company was getting settled in the new quarters.

“This is some different from St Augustine,” complained Miss Pennington, who roomed with her friend Miss Dixon.

“I should say so.  I’d go back to New York, if I could.”

“So would I. But I guess we’ll have to stay, my dear.  Hand me the powder; will you?  My face is a wreck from the cinders and dust.”