Really what most worried me was the feeling which I could not throw off
that somehow or other we were making very little progress in any
particular direction.
He even admitted that there was reason for my doubts, but he confided to
me that to find these Coquina hills, was like traversing a maze. Doubling
to and fro among forests and swamps, he insisted, was the only possible
path of access to the undiscovered Coquina hills of Florida. Otherwise,
he argued, these Coquina hills would long ago have been discovered.
And it seemed to me that he had been right when at last we came out on
the edge of a palm forest and beheld that astounding blue outline of
hills in a country which has always been supposed to lie as flat as a
flabby flap-jack.
A desert of saw-palmetto stretched away before us to the base of the
hills; game trails ran through it in every direction like sheep paths;
a few moth-eaten Florida deer trotted away as we appeared.
Into one of these trails stepped Samuel Mink, burdened only with his
concertina and a box of cigars. I, loaded with seventy pounds of
impedimenta including a moving-picture apparatus, reeled after him.
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