"Don't keep us in suspense any longer," Nancy pleaded. "Are we going to crocodile land?"

Her tall, handsome father sat down on the couch. "In a way, yes. This is the story. An old college friend of mine named Roger Gonzales lives in Key Biscayne outside of Miami. Biscayne Bay is full of small islands, which are called keys. Most of them are inhabited, but some of the smaller ones are like jungles and nobody lives on them. Some twenty miles from Key Biscayne there's a key that has been nicknamed Crocodile Island. A group of men operate a crocodile farm on it. They breed these reptiles to sell to zoos or other places where sightseers can view them."

As Mr. Drew paused, Bess spoke, with fright in her voice. "And you're going to ask us to go to this alligator farm?"

Mr. Drew smiled. "Crocodile farm, Bess. There's a difference."

"There is?"

"Yes. The American alligator has a much broader snout than the crocodile, and is less vicious and active. The two reptiles are about equal in size and can grow up to twelve feet in length, but the croc weighs about a third less than the 'gator."

Bess shivered. "I don't want to meet either one."

George laughed. To tease Bess, she said, "Mr. Drew, tell us some more scary things about crocodiles."

Bess groaned.

"They like to live in large bodies of shallow salty water," Mr. Drew continued, "preferably in sluggish rivers, open swamps, and marshes that are brackish. They raise their heads when you go near them and—"

"Oh, stop!" Bess begged.

Mr. Drew grinned. "But I'm not finished. In this country crocs were formerly found around the southernmost tip of Florida, but because so many people went to live on Key Biscayne, the crocs moved into the Everglades. They have webbed feet and can walk on soft ground."

"How fast can they run?" George asked.

"Very fast. Like horses!"