flying, came alongside, and a stout man of middle age came on board.
Morris came forward: "Mr. Allen, the collector, I suppose? I am master
and owner of this yacht, the Pelican of New York, a pleasure-vessel
on a cruise. The other schooner is also a yacht: she belongs in
Montréal."

"All right, captain! I will step below and look at your papers, if you
please. A handsome vessel, upon my word!"

"We are just going to breakfast, major: you will join us, I hope?"

This the major did, and being a Yankee of fluent speech, we soon
learned all about him--how he had served in a Massachusetts regiment,
and had been the first secretary of state under the new constitution
of Florida. This has an imposing sound, but when we learn that almost
all the better class of whites were mere unreconstructed rebels,
leaving only a few poor whites, some carpet-baggers from the North
and the negroes from whom to select the State officers, the position
ceases to seem exalted. During breakfast he told us all about New
Smyrna and its people, which was not much, since there are only five
or six houses there. The conjecture of Captain Morris about the pilot
was correct: he was of a good old rebel family, every man of whom of
suitable age had been in the Confederate service.

Major Allen went to visit the Victoria, and on his return we both got
under way and beat up the river about two miles, anchoring in three
fathoms water under the bluff on which stands the collector's house.
About noon a boat from each yacht started for the hotel. The river
here expands into a bay of a mile in width, containing several
islands, some of them wooded, and some low and grassy. The main