It was midmorning and getting hot. He stopped in the shade of a pine and mopped his neck with a handkerchief as a few hopeful tourist pearl-hunters walked past. He thought Chicago had been hot when he left, but this place was suffocating. He suddenly understood more clearly the lure of a hunt that drew its participants into the water. He sat at the base of the tall loblolly pine to observe the activities down at the lake. He knew virtually nothing about pearl-hunting. Dozens of wagons and scores of tents dotted the lakeshore for as many miles as he could see. Hundreds of campers milled about on the shore, and. hundreds more appeared as heads bobbing on the lake surface. The coach from town rattled by him. It made a constant circuit of the pearl camps for those who didn’t want to walk to or from Port Caddo. He shook his head in amazement. He had seen people get this excited over gold and silver, but never over pearls. He checked his pocket, as he had done a hundred times each day since leaving Chicago, to make sure the little coin purse was still there.
