Nobody's
goin' step on yo', ner go triflin' roun' yo' in no way whatsomeveh.
Yo' jes lay there in the sun an' git 's fat 's yo' please. Don' yo'
tu'n yo' weeked li'l' eyes on Gideon. He's jes goin' 'long home, an'
ain' lookin' foh no muss."
He came presently to the water, and, as luck would have it, to a
little group of negro cabins, where he was able to buy old clothes
and, after much dickering, a long and somewhat leaky rowboat rigged
out with a tattered leg-of-mutton sail. This he provisioned with a jug
of water, a starch box full of white corn-meal, and a wide strip of
lean razorback bacon.
As he pushed out from shore and set his sail to the small breeze that
blew down from the north, an absolute contentment possessed him. The
idle waters of the lagoon, lying without tide or current in eternal
indolence, rippled and sparkled in breeze and sunlight with a merry
surface activity, and seemed to lap the leaky little boat more swiftly
on its way. Mosquito Inlet opened broadly before him, and skirting the
end of Merritt's Island he came at last into that longest lagoon, with
which he was most familiar, the Indian River.
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