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[Illustration: LIKE LIGHTNING THE HUGE BOOM SWUNG AROUND, AND THE
AVALANCHE OF MUD DESCENDED AT THE PONY'S FEET.     _Page 128._

_The Boy Chums in the Florida Jungle._]




The Boy Chums In The Florida Jungle

OR

Charlie West and Walter Hazard With the Seminole Indians

    By WILMER M. ELY

    AUTHOR OF

    "The Boy Chums Cruising In Florida Waters"
    "The Boy Chums In The Gulf Of Mexico"
    "The Boy Chums On Haunted Island"
    "The Boy Chums On Indian River"
    "The Boy Chums' Perilous Cruise"
    "The Boy Chums In The Forest"

[Illustration]

    A. L. BURT COMPANY
    NEW YORK




    Copyright, 1915
    BY A. L. BURT COMPANY

    THE BOY CHUMS IN THE FLORIDA JUNGLE




Contents


    CHAPTER                                                 PAGE
       I. THE BOY CHUMS                                        3
      II. THE NEW VENTURE                                     11
     III. INVESTIGATING                                       20
      IV. BUNCOED                                             28
       V. THE STRIKE                                          37
      VI. LOYALTY                                             45
     VII. CHARLEY HAS A NARROW ESCAPE                         53
    VIII. WALTER TAKES HIS FIRST LESSON IN RUNNING AN ENGINE  61
      IX. BOB IS SENT HOME                                    69
       X. WALTER AND THE ENGINEER GO A-HUNTING                76
      XI. THE CONVICTS' CAMP                                  83
     XII. CHARLEY GETS A NEW CREW                             91
    XIII. LOOKING AHEAD                                       98
     XIV. SCOUTING                                           105
      XV. THE FIRST BLOW                                     112
     XVI. FIGHTING THE FIRE                                  120
    XVII. THE CONVICTS                                       128
   XVIII. THE MEDICINE MAN                                   136
     XIX. THE OLD FORT                                       144
      XX. THE HIDDEN VOICE                                   152
     XXI. CHARLEY GETS A TELEGRAM                            160
    XXII. MOVING THE CAMP                                    168
   XXIII. EXCITING EVENTS                                    176
    XXIV. A CLEW                                             184
     XXV. SICKNESS IN THE CAMP                               192
    XXVI. A MIDNIGHT RAID                                    200
   XXVII. BURNING OUT THE JUNGLE                             208
  XXVIII. SHOOTING TO KILL                                   216
    XXIX. THE SEMINOLE LAD                                   224
     XXX. VISITORS                                           232
    XXXI. MR. JONES BUYS THE OUTFIT                          240
   XXXII. THE MYSTERY SOLVED                                 248




THE BOY CHUMS IN THE FLORIDA JUNGLE




CHAPTER I.

THE BOY CHUMS.


"GOLLY! I'm getting powerful tired ob dis. Fish what just clusterers
'round youah bait an' won't bite at hit noways is jest trifling and
noaccount. I reckon dey's too ornery an' too finiky anyway to be fit to
eat. Well, here goes again, though hit ain't no use. I'se dun spit on
mah bait fifty times, an' rubbed hit twice with my rabbit's foot, but
hit doan' do a bit of good. Dey jes' look at hit an' grin like white
folks at a <DW65>'s wedding." The little ebony <DW64> who had spoken let
drop his daintily baited hook into the water again with a gesture of
disgust.

"Let me have a look at them, Chris," said another voice, and a white
face joined the black, as the two peered over the edge of the bridge
down into the crystal-clear depths of the water below.

The white boy straightened up after a brief glance into the azure
waters. He was tall and sturdily built, with lines of self-reliance
and determination upon his youthful face. His mouth widened into a grin
of amusement, as he watched the little <DW64> peering anxiously down at
the circle of black-circle-eyed fish that crowded eagerly but warily
around the baited hook.

"You're fooling away your time, Chris," said the white lad. "Look
here." He chopped up a few pieces of bait and flung them over beside
the other's line. As they slowly sank there was turmoil and confusion
amongst the finny observers below. With swirl and splash they darted up
and seized upon the tiny fragments.

Chris wound up his line with a snort of disgust. "Dey are conjured,
clean conjured," he declared; "going clean out ob their way to get bait
when dar was plenty right afore 'em. Them's sure some fool fishes,
Massa Charles."

"You're wrong," said the other boy lightly. "They are mangrove
snappers, the foxiest fish that swims. Some one of them got hurt on a
hook some time, and his misfortune has become history among the tribe.
I guess that's what makes the black circles around their eyes. They
just keep worrying so about getting hold of another tempting morsel
with a hook attached that they don't eat half enough, and are fast
worrying themselves into nervous prostration."

The little <DW64> snorted, and continued to wind up his line, while his
white companion paused to gaze with appreciation at the beautiful scene
spread out to his view. At the shore end of the high railroad bridge
upon which they stood was Jupiter, a tiny nest of white houses, almost
lost among the glossy green palms and vivid blazing tropical flowers.
Below them flowed the blue waters of the Laxahatchu River. To the west,
the river broke into a dozen parts, each flowing swiftly between as
many shoals and islands, and finally losing itself in the distance.
To the east, it joined the sea, scarce a mile distant, the breakers
meeting the river's waters in a tumbling mass of foam. A little below
the bridge, on the opposite side of the river from Jupiter, three
government buildings rose up from a high bluff--a wireless station,
a weather bureau office, and a towering lighthouse, built long, long
before the civil war. Beyond these, down close to the inlet, the lad's
eyes focused upon a long point, jutting out into the river, upon which
stood two small tents. From the inlet a rowboat, with two occupants,
was approaching the point with the long easy strokes characteristic of
experienced boatmen.

The lad turned to his black companion. "Come on, let's go back to camp,
Chris," he said. "The Captain and Walter are nearly there now."

"Better look to youah line. De slack's running out like mad, Massa
Charles," chided the little darkey. "Golly! I don't know what you
white chillens would do widout dis <DW65>. 'Pears like you white
chillens can't even fish widout Chris along to tell you-alls when you
got a bite."

But Charley had already sprung for the coiled-up line, which was
whizzing out at a rapid rate. Taking a turn around a post, he
endeavored to stop the hook's victim in its mad career, but, as the
long, heavy line tauted like a bar of iron, he realized that he stood a
chance of losing both line and fish, and he paid out the balance of the
line very slowly. It was not until the very end of the line was reached
that the fish suddenly changed its tactics and, turning short, rushed
for the bridge.

Charley yanked in the slack line swiftly and called to Chris to come
to his assistance. Near the bridge the fish turned again and sped for
the far-off inlet, both boys clinging to the line in a vain attempt to
check the outward rush.

"Golly!" panted Chris, as the line dragged slowly and burningly through
his grip. "Hit's lucky we ain't got this line tied to no post. Dat fish
would sure pull de whole bridge ober."

"Rats!" laughed Charley, as he grabbed out his pocket handkerchief and
hastily wrapped it around one hand to protect it from the burning line,
"isn't the bridge bearing the whole strain as long as we are standing
on it?"

"Course it ain't," maintained the little <DW64> pantingly, "ain't my
back beginning to ache, an' my arms get lame, an' mah hands burn like
fire? Golly! You white chillens sho' don't use no logic or reason.
Maybe you ain't holdin' back hard enough to feel hit, but I'se sho'
getting de strain, not dis pesky ole bridge."

"Well, you will not have to bear it much longer," Charley grinned.
"Don't you notice that the strain is getting weaker all the time?
He's a monster, but he's evidently swallowed the hook clean down, and
that's why he is giving up so fast. We'll have the best of him in a few
minutes."

The lad's prophecy proved true, for, long before the end of the line
was reached, the fish began circling in ever-narrowing circles until,
at last, the two boys were able to tow it up slowly to the shore.

"Golly!" exclaimed Chris, as the fish's huge bulk came into view.
"Dat's de biggest an' ugliest fish I ever catched. What is hit, anyway?"

Charley glanced down at the short, thick, black body and the huge,
gasping, red mouth. "It's a Jew fish," he announced. "I guess it weighs
about 800 pounds, but that's not so very much, when you consider that
they sometimes grow to weigh over 1,800. Unlike most big fish, however,
they are very good eating. Wind up the fish line, and then cut out some
good big steaks. They will make dandy fish balls and chowder. While
you're doing that, I'll run up to the village and tell everyone to
come down and help themselves, then I'll bring the launch around from
the dock and pick you up."

Soon after his departure the villagers began to arrive in twos and
threes, but not before Chris had cut out several fine steaks from
the huge fish. By the time he wound up his line, washed the steaks
carefully and strung them upon a piece of cocoanut fiber, Charley hove
in sight in a little motor boat. He ran up as close as he dared to the
shore and stopped his engine. "Hurry up and climb aboard," he called,
"we want to get back to camp before dark."

Chris waded out, treading gingerly with bare feet over the oyster
shells that strewed the bottom.

"Hurry up," laughed Charley, "your feet are too tough to be hurt by
oyster shells."

The little darkey