When Tom Allen swung open the door, Bob saw that he was in a home of refinement. On the walls, hung several old oil paintings; a wide, doorless opening led directly into a little parlor.

“Gran’mothah,” said Tom, with deference, addressing an aged lady sitting by a window, “this is Robert Balfour, of Chicago.”

As Bob bowed, Tom added:

“Bob, this is my gran’mothah, Mrs. Mendez. She lived in Pensacola befoah the Indians—almost.”

The venerable lady was rising, with a smile on her wrinkled face.

“Please don’t,” urged the boy. “I’m very glad to meet you. I’m a stranger, and the boys have taken me in. It’s beautiful here,” added Bob, glancing at the old-fashioned furniture; “my mother and I have often talked of such a place.”

“You are a strangah to the south, then?” said Mrs. Mendez.
 
“It’s the first time I ever saw pond lilies in the winter,” answered Bob, looking toward a bowl of white blossoms on the marble-topped table.

“They are magnolia buds,” explained Tom’s grandmother. “I have them for old time’s sake. When I was young, the gulf shore was lined with magnolias. They are gone now,” she added, with a sigh.

Hal Burton, after speaking to Mrs. Mendez, disappeared into a rear room with Tom, where an animated conversation was already to be heard. The words of Tom’s grandmother carried Bob back to vague pages in his history reading.

“You have lived here a long time,” he suggested.

“Since Pensacola was a trading post,” said the old lady. “But, in the early days, there was a cypress stockade about our cabin. Then, the gulf came up to our yard.”

Three blocks crowded with buildings now stood between the little house and the sea.

“Your father was Spanish?” asked Bob, his thoughts already fired with the passed away romance of those early days.
 
“A tradah among the Creek Indians,” answered Mrs. Mendez.

“Are there any relics of those times in Pensacola now?” went on Bob eagerly.

Mrs. Mendez smiled. “The big house you just passed on the corner is fifty years older than I am. Within it, are the beams the Indians helped to raise.”

“What was it?—A fort?” asked Bob.

Again the old lady smiled. “If my son, Tom’s father, were alive, he could tell you its story—I am too old. But it was where the Indians came to sell furs. Mr. Mendez was a clerk there.”

At this moment, the two boys and a middle-aged woman entered the room.

“This is Bob, mothah,” exclaimed Tom Allen, and Mrs. Allen gave young Balfour the hand grasp of southern hospitality.

“They picked me up on the street,” repeated Bob, with renewed embarrassment.

“You ah certainly most welcome to ouah home,” interrupted Mrs. Allen. “An’ as fo’ pickin’ yo’ up on the street,” she continued, with a smile, “I found a real gold ring on the banquette mahsef once.” Then, as Bob’s confusion deepened, the pleasant voiced woman[23] added, “These young prowlahs ah about to pahtake of some refreshments in the next room.”

“Charlotte,” exclaimed Mrs. Mendez from her rocking chair, “the young gentleman asked me about the old post. Won’t you tell him?”

Bob heard a sigh from Tom, who immediately stepped to his side and whispered:

“Them thah crabs is gittin’ cold. I’ll tell you all about it latah.”

“My own grandfathah helped hew its timbahs,” explained Mrs. Allen. “It is now a fo’gotten monument.”

She was leading the little party into the rear room. Hal, bearing the lamp, nudged Bob with his elbow.

“Cut it out,” he whispered. “Them ducks are all dead an’ gone. Come on. Don’t you hear the crabs shiverin’ with the cold?”

“Some day,” continued Mrs. Allen, “I’ll be glad to tell you the story of the old warehouse. It was wheah colonial day tradahs made fortunes on the gulf as the Hudson Bay Company drew wealth from the Indians of the no’th. It is now a boa’din’ house,” she concluded, with a curious smile. “Perhaps youah mothah would be glad to come and see it?”
 
Thanking his hostess, Bob was about to enter upon another line of inquiry when Tom caught him by the arm.

“You’ll excuse us, mothah,” said Tom, “but this is a regulah meetin’ night. We ah about to considah impo’tant mattahs.”

“Say,” exploded Hal at once, “can’t you get all o’ that mossy dope you need in the history books?”

“Plenty of it,” laughed Bob, “but that’s at long range. I’m comin’ to-morrow and look all over the old building.”

Tom grunted. “If that’s what yo’ all come to Pensacola fo’, I reckon you’ll have yo’ hands full.”

“You can read all that,” went on Hal. “And, take it from me, there’s too much to do to be nosin’ around lookin’ for Spanish things.”

Bob grinned and pointed to the table and the cooling loaves.

“These aren’t Spanish, are they? I’m ready.”

Tom had just lifted the top off one loaf and the savory steam was welling into the room, when he dropped the section of bread.

“Where’s Mac?” he exclaimed. Then he hastily stuck his head into the parlor.[25] “Mothah,” he called, “where’s Mac Gregory? He went fo’ some pralines.”

Mrs. Allen came quickly into the room.

“Gentlemen,” she exclaimed, holding her hands before her face as if to hide her confusion, “I must confess mah inexcusable ovahsight. Youah friend and colleague was heah and left a message which I neglected to delivah. He can not be with you at youah meetin’. A friend presented him a ticket to the ten-cent pictuah show, and he has repaired to the theatah.”

Tom’s eyes twinkled, but matter of fact Hal growled:

“Went to the movin’ picture show on a regular meetin’ night?”

“So it appeahs,” laughed Mrs. Allen, as she withdrew.

“Well,” growled Hal, “it’s that many more crabs for us, anyway.”

It required no education for Bob to master a freshly fried soft shell crab. But by the time three of them had disappeared with crackling crispness, he was ready to ask:

“Say, kids; what’s the meeting all about?”

Hal and Tom were too busy to reply at once, but, finally, both loaves were empty. After a[26] search for loose crumbs, Hal pushed an empty loaf aside.

“Before we go any further, I’d like to know one thing. You look all right, and you eat all right—though you can’t tell much by crabs, there bein’ a limit to ’em, but are you one o’ them ducks ’at would rather get off in a corner an’ read a book than go boatin’ or fishin’? O’ course, you don’t have to answer lessen you want to, but business is business.”

“I can’t read a book while I’m in Pensacola,” answered Bob.

“That ain’t the point,” continued Hal, leaning over the table. “Would you like to do it?”

Bob could not resist laughing outright.

“I don’t know what I’d do or want to do if I had to mosey around town here for three months all alone. But if you fellows have anything on that you’ll let me in on, I’ll cut the books.”

“We’ve got a club,” spoke up Tom, who seemed satisfied with the statement, “but it ain’t a ‘gang’. We ah very pahticulah, because we got to be. Ouah by-laws permit but fouah membahs, not includin’ Jerry Blossom. About the end of the season last yeah, we were fo’ced to expel a membah foh absentin’ himself from a reg’lar weekly outin’ to attend a picnic with a girl. Are you co’espondin’ with any girls?”

“I am not,” answered Bob promptly.

His interlocutors gazed at each other a few moments in silence.

“I reckon Mac ought to be hyah by rights,” suggested Tom, as if in deep thought.

“He ought to be expelled hisself,” blurted out Hal.

“But he owns the boat,” argued Tom, seriously. “And, besides, it was a free ticket.”

“’Scuse us,” remarked Hal suddenly, as he beckoned to Tom. “We got to confer a minute.”

Bob used the interval to look about the room. On the wall hung a framed set of engrossed resolutions. They were dated only five years before, and signed by the officers of the Mexico and Florida Steamship Company, deploring the death of Captain Malcolm Allen, who had been in the service of the company in the Mexican trade for many years as master of the steamer Mazatlan. This then was Tom’s father.

“Balfour,” said Tom Allen at last, touching Bob on the arm, “we’ve elected you a membah of the ‘Anclote Island Fishing Club’.”
 
“I’m sure I’m glad,” exclaimed Bob. “I hoped it was something like that. But how about Mac? What if he don’t approve of me?”

“Then I reckon you’re fired,” answered Hal, bluntly.

Bob could not help showing some chagrin.

“I don’t see why that troubles you,” went on Hal. “We’re takin’ a chance, too. You’ve got the privilege o’ sayin’ you don’t accept.”

“But I do,” insisted Bob. “That is, if my mother consents.”

“There you go,” snorted the doubting Hal. “I knew there’d be somethin’.”

“Well,” responded Bob, “there’ll have to be that condition. My parents pay my way, and they tell me what I’m goin’ to do.”

Tom reached out his hand. Thereupon, Hal could do no less. As the three boys, acquaintances of but a little over an hour, awkwardly shook hands, Tom said:

“If everything is all right, an’ youah mothah lets yo’, come to my house about three o’clock to-morrow. Hal and I ah fo’ced to attend school till that ouah.”

“I hope Mac approves,” added Bob, still nettled over this condition. “I suppose you make[29] fishin’ trips now and then,” he went on. “Do you ever camp out?”

Hal snorted, and slapped Tom on the back.

“Say,” he chuckled, “do you hear that? Go fishin’ sometimes? Do we camp out? Kid,” he added solemnly, “we do go fishin’—sometimes. And them sometimes is every Friday at noon, when our season opens, and that’s now, and we camp out from that till Monday mornin’. That’s all.”

Bob’s jaw fell. From Friday noon till Monday morning. The possibility of parental protest fell on him like a wet blanket.

“Where do you go?” he asked hastily.

Tom thereupon disclosed the nature and practice of the select quartette of adventurers. Three years before, Hal Burton, Mac Gregory, Tom Allen, and the now expelled boy, had come into possession, through Mac’s father, of a serviceable old life-saving boat. Rigging up a sail, the four boys had made a long cruise out of Pensacola Bay and along the gulf coast to Perdido Bay.

On the eastern shore of this ocean bayou rises a considerable bluff crowded with dense pine trees. On this, about ten miles from the gulf, the boys on their first cruise located a camp.[30] The following spring, Hal brought with him enough money to purchase a 10-horsepower motor, which was installed in the life boat—the Escambia. That year, by purchase of “culls” from the Perdido River saw mills and a vigilant search for drift timber, the club managed to secure material to build a cabin.

“Fine,” shouted Bob at last. “If Mac Gregory don’t vote for me, I’m goin’ to miss the best thing I ever read of. But say,” and he asked the question that had been on his tongue for some minutes, “why is it the Anclote Club? And where is Anclote Island?”

“About three hundred miles from here, over near Tampa,” answered Hal soberly.

“And do you cruise over there?”

“Nope,” snapped Hal, “but say—listen! That’s the greatest tarpon fishin’ ground in the world. Quail are great over on old Perdido, and fishin’ in the bay is fine and dandy. But that ain’t tarpon. Some day we’re goin’ for the big fish—on the long voyage. We’re workin’ for a big boat and enough time. When we get ’em both, it’s the Anclote Fishin’ Club for Anclote Island at last.”

“Are you going this year?” asked Bob eagerly.
 
“I reckon not,” answered Tom with a smile. “But we are a goin’ to think about it mighty hard.”

Bob sprang up, his face aglow with enthusiasm. It was nearly ten o’clock.

“Boys,” he said—nervous in his eagerness—“I’ll be here at three o’clock to-morrow. If Mac turns me down, hang a black rag on the gate.”