Table-legs, bench-legs, and the bases of all culinary furniture, like the body of the camp, were made out of palmetto logs driven into the ground to support cedar planks for the tops.

And it was seated at one of these tables, under the giant oaks, pines, and palmettos, that Shiela and Hamil ate their first camp-repast together, with Gray and his father opposite.

Never had he tasted such a heavenly banquet, never had he dreamed of such delicacies.  Eudo Stent brought panfuls of fried bass, still sizzling under the crisp bacon; and great panniers woven of green palmetto, piled high with smoking sweet potatoes all dusty from the ashes; and pots of coffee and tea, steaming and aromatic.

Then came broiled mallard duck, still crackling from the coals, and coonti bread, and a cold salad of palm cabbage, nut-flavored, delectable.  Then in the thermos-jugs were spring water and a light German vintage to mix with it.  And after everything, fresh oranges in a nest of Spanish moss.

Red sunlight struck through the forest, bronzing bark and foliage; sombre patches of shade passed and repassed across the table—­the shadows of black vultures soaring low above the camp smoke.  The waters of the lake burned gold.

As yet the approach of sunset had not stirred the water-fowl to restlessness; dark streaks on the lake gleamed white at moments as some string of swimming ducks turned and the light glinted on throat and breast.  Herons stood in the shallows; a bittern, squawking, rose from the saw-grass, circled, and pitched downward again.

[Illustration:  “Never had he tasted such a heavenly banquet.”]

“This is a peaceful place,” said Cardross, narrowing eyes watching the lake through the haze of his pipe.  “I almost hate to disturb it with a gun-shot; but if we stay here we’ve got to eat.”  And, turning toward the guides’ table where they lounged over their after-dinner pipes:  “Coacochee, my little daughter has never shot a wild turkey.  Do you think she had better try this evening or go after the big duck?”

“Pen-ni-chah,” said the Seminole quietly.

“He says, ‘turkey-gobbler,’” whispered Shiela to Hamil; “‘pen-nit-kee’ is the word for hen turkey.  Oh, I hope I have a chance.  You’ll pair with me, won’t you?”

“Of course.”

Cardross, listening, smiled.  “Is it yelping or roosting, Little Tiger?”

“Roost um pen-ni-chah, aw-tee-tus-chee.  I-hoo-es-chay.”

“He says that we can roost them by and by and that we ought to start now,” whispered the girl, slightly excited.  “Dad, Mr. Hamil has never shot a wild turkey—­”

“Neither have I,” observed her father humourously.

“Oh, I forgot!  Well, then—­why can’t we all—­”

“Not much!  No sitting in swamps for me, but a good, clean, and easy boat in the saw-grass.  Gray, are you going after ducks with me or are you going to sit with one hopeful girl, one credulous white man, and one determined red man on a shell heap in a bog and yawn till moonrise?  Ducks?  Sure!  Well, then, we’d better be about it, my son.”