It looked like a case of watchin' out for the stick to come down. Uh-huh! The good yachtAgneshad been tied to her anchor less than half a day when this grand treasure-hunting expedition of ours showed symptoms of collapse. It was weak in the knees, groggy in its motions, and had fur on its tongue. If there'd ever been any stock issued by the Ellins-Hemmingway Exploration and Development Company, I'll bet you could have bought in a controllin' interest for two stacks of cigarette coupons and a handful of assorted campaign buttons.
You see, Old Hickory and Auntie had hung all their bright hopes on this Captain Rupert Killam. They'd listened to his tale about a secret mangrove island with a gold and jewel stuffed mound in the middle, and they'd taken it right off the fork. His mysterious and romantic motions had them completely buffaloed—at first.
But on the way down here Rupert's reputation as a bold, bad adventurer had gradually been oozin' away, like a slow air leak from a tire. His last play of hidin' his head when theAgneshad been held up by a gunboat had got 'most everybody aboard lookin' squint-eyed at him. Even Mrs. Mumford had crossed him off her hero list.
Just what his final fluke was I'm only givin' a guess at, but I judge that when Mr. Ellins called on him to point out the pirate hoard, now we were right on the ground, Rupert begun stallin' him off. Anyway, I saw 'em havin' a little private session 'way up in the bow soon after we got the hook down. By the set of Old Hickory's jaw I knew he was puttin' something straight up to Rupert. And the Cap, he points first one way, then the other, endin' by diggin' up a chart and gazin' at it vague.
"Huh!" grunts Old Hickory.
I could hear that clear back by the bridge, where Vee and I were leanin' over the rail watchin' for flyin'-fish. Also we are within ear-stretchin' distance when he makes his report to Auntie.
"Somewhere around here—he thinks," says Mr. Ellins. "Says he needs a day or so to get his bearings. Meanwhile he wants us to go fishing."
"Fish!" sniffs Auntie. "I shall certainly do nothing of the sort. I want to tell you right here, too, that I am not going to humor that absurd person any more."
"Isn't he just as wise as he was when you lured him away from the hotel where I'd put him?" asks Old Hickory sarcastic.
"I supposed you had a little sense then yourself, Matthew Ellins," Auntie raps back at him.
"You flatter me," says Old Hickory, bowin' stiff and marchin' off huffy.
After which they both registers glum, injured looks. A close-up of either of 'em would have soured a can of condensed milk, especially whenever Captain Rupert Killam took a chance on showin' himself. And Rupert, he was wise to the situation. He couldn't help being. He takes it hard, too. All his chesty, important airs are gone. He skulks around like a stray pup that's dodgin' the dog-catcher.
You see, when he'd worked off that buried treasure bunk in New York it had listened sort of convincin'. He'd got away with it, there being nobody qualified to drop the flag on him. But down here on the west coast of Florida, right where he'd located the scene, it was his cue to ditch the prospectus gag and produce something real. And he couldn't. That is, he hadn't up to date. Old Hickory ain't the one to put up with any pussy-footin'. Nor Auntie, either. When they ain't satisfied with things they have a habit of lettin' folks know just how they feel.
Hence this area of low pressure that seems to center around theAgnes. Old Hickory is off in one end of the boat, puffin' at his cigar savage; Auntie's at the other, glarin' into a book she's pretendin' to read; Mrs. Mumford is crochetin' silent; Professor Leonidas Barr is riggin' up some kind of a scientific dip net; J. Dudley Simms is down in the main saloon playin' solitaire; and Rupert sticks to the upper deck, where he's out of the way.
Vee and me? Oh, we got hold of a map, and was tryin' to locate just where we were.
"See, that must be Sanibel Island—the long green streak off there," says she, tracin' it out with a pink forefinger. "And that is Pine Island Sound, with the Caloos—Caloosa—"
"Now sneeze and you'll get the rest of it," says I.
"Caloosahatchee. There!" says she. "What a name to give a river! But isn't it wonderful down here, Torchy?"
"Perfectly swell, so far as the scenery goes," says I.
Course, it's a good deal like this 79-cent pastel art stuff you see in the Sixth Avenue department stores. The water looks like it had been laid on by Bohemian glass blowers who didn't care how many colors they used. The little islands near by, with clumps of feather-duster palms stickin' up from 'em, was a bit stagey and artificial. The far-off shores was too vivid a green to be true, and the high white clouds was the impossible kind that Maxfield Parrish puts on magazine covers. And, with that dazzlin' sun blazin' overhead it all made your eyes blink.
Even the birds don't seem real. Not far from us was a row of these here pelicans—foolish things with bills a yard long and so heavy they have to rest 'em on their necks. They're all strung out along the edge of the channel, havin' a fish gorge. And, believe me, when a pelican goes fishin' he don't make any false moves. He'll sit there squintin' solemn at the water as if he was sayin' his prayers, then all of a sudden he'll make a jab with that face extension of his, and when he pulls it out and tosses it up you can bet your last jitney he's added something substantial to the larder. One gulp and it's all over. I watched one old bird tuck away about ten fish in as many minutes.
"Gee!" says I. "Every day is Friday with him. Or maybe he's got a contract to supply Fulton Market."
The entertainin' part of the performance, though, was when the bunch took it into their heads to move on, and started to fly. They've got little short legs and wide feet that they flop back and forth foolish, like they was tryin' to kick themselves out of the water. They make a getaway about as graceful as a cow tryin' the fox trot. But say, once they get goin', with them big wings planed against the breeze, they can do the soar act something grand. And dive! One of 'em doin' a hundred-foot straight down plunge has got Annette lookin' like a plumber fallin' off a roof backwards.
No, there wasn't any gloom around our side of the yacht, though I'll admit it don't take much of a program to keep me amused while Vee has the next orchestra chair to mine. We took no notice of anybody's grouch, and whether or not there was any pirate gold in the neighborhood was a question we didn't waste thought on. We knew there wouldn't be anything in it for us, even if there was.
When the word was passed around that anybody that wanted to might get out and fish, we was the first to volunteer. Seems this had been the scheme right along—that our party was to do more or less fishin', so as to give any natives that might be hangin' around the proper idea of why we was there.
Professor Barr is right on hand, too; and Dudley tries it just to kill time. We did have more or less luck, and got quite excited. Vee pulls in something all striped up like a hat-band, and one that I hooked blew himself up into a reg'lar football after I landed him in the bottom of the boat. The Professor had jaw-breakin' names for everything we caught, but he couldn't say whether they was good to eat or not. The yacht cook wouldn't take a chance on any of them. It was good sport, though, and we all collected a fresh coat of sunburn. And say, with them new tints in her cheeks, maybe Vee ain't some ornamental. But then, she's easy to look at anyway.
It was this same evenin', the second we'd been anchored quiet in behind this lengthy island, that the big three of our expedition gets together again. First I knew, I saw 'em grouped along the side where the companionway stairs was swung—Auntie, Old Hickory, and Captain Killam. Rupert seems to be explainin' something. Then in a minute or two the men begin easin' Auntie down into one of the launches tied to the boat boom, and the next I see them go chuggin' off into the moonlight. I hunts up Vee and passes her the word.
"What do you know about that?" says I. "Pikin' off for a joy ride all by their three-somes!"
"I suppose Captain Killam has found where his treasure island is," says Vee, "and is going to put it on exhibition. You know, he was out by himself ever so long to-day."
"He ought to be able to pick out something likely from among all of these," says I. "Islands is what this country seems to be long on. And they got a spiffy night for it, ain't they?"
"I think Auntie might have taken us along," says Vee, a bit pouty.
"We're no treasure hunters," I reminds her. "We're just to help out the pleasure-cruisin' bluff. Who there is to put it over on I don't quite catch, though. Ain't there any population in this part of the map?"
Vee thinks she can see a light 'way up the shore on Sanibel and another off towards the mainland; but the fact remains that here's a whole lot of perfectly good moonlight goin' to waste.
"If one of the iron steamboats could only wander down here with a Coney Island mob aboard," says I, "wouldn't they just eat this up? Think of 'em dancin' on the decks and— Say, what's the matter with our startin' a little something like that?"
"Let's!" says Vee.
So we had a deck steward lug the music machine up out of the cabin, set J. Dudley to work puttin' on dance records, and, with Mrs. Mumford and the Professor and half the crew for a gallery, we gave an exhibition spiel for an hour or so. I hope they got as much fun out of it as we did. Anyway, it tapped the long, long ago for Mrs. Mumford. I heard her turnin' on the sob spigot for the Professor.
"Poor, dear Mr. Mumford!" she sighs. "How he did love dancing with me. And how wonderfully he could polka!"
"She's off again!" I whispers to Vee.
So we drifts forward as far away from this monologue about the dear departed as we could get. Not that we didn't appreciate hearin' intimate details about the late Mr. Mumford. We did—the first two or three times. After that it was more entertainin' to look at the moon.
For my part, I could have stood a few more hours of that; but about ten o'clock Mrs. Mumford's voice gives out, or she gets to the end of a chapter. Anyway, she informs us cheerful that it's time young folks was gettin' in their beauty sleep; so Vee goes off to her stateroom, and after I've helped J. Dudley Simms burn up a couple of his special cork-tipped Russians, I turns in myself.
Didn't seem like I'd been poundin' my ear more'n half an hour, and I was dreamin' something lovely about doin' one of them pelican dives off a pink cotton cloud, when I feels someone shakin' me by the shoulder. I pries my eyes open, and finds one of the crew standin' over me, urgin' me to get up.
"Wrong number, Jack," says I. "I ain't on the night shift."
"It's the young lady, sir," says he. "You're to dress and come on deck."
"Eh?" says I. "Have we been U-boated or Zepped? All right; I'll be there in two minutes."
And I finds Vee costumed businesslike in a middy blouse and khaki skirt, stowin' things away in a picnic hamper.
"What's the plot of the piece?" I asks, yawny.
"Auntie and Mr. Ellins haven't come back yet," says she. "It's after three o'clock. Something must have happened."
"But Captain Killam is with 'em," says I.
"What use is he, I'd like to know? Torchy, we must go and find them."
"But I don't know any more about runnin' a motor-boat than I do about playin' a trombone," I protests.
"I do," says Vee. "I learned in Bermuda one winter. I have coffee and sandwiches here. They'll be hungry."
"Better put in some cigars for Mr. Ellins," says I. "If he's run out of smokes I'd rather not find him."
"Get cigars, then," says she. "I have the small launch all ready."
"How about taking one of the crew?" I suggests.
"Bother!" says Vee. "Besides, they've seen sharks and are all frightened. I'm not afraid of sharks."
You bet she wasn't; nor of being out at night, nor of startin' a strange engine. You should have seen her spin that wheel and juggle the tiller ropes. Some girl!
"Got any clew as to where they are?" I asks.
"Only the general direction they took," says she. "But something must be done. Think of Auntie being out at this hour! When we get past those little islands we'll begin blowing the horn."
It was sort of weird, take it from me, moseyin' off that way at night into a tangle of islands without any signs up to tell you which way you was goin', or anybody in sight to ask directions of. The moon was still doin' business, but it was droppin' lower every minute. Vee just stands there calm, though, rollin' the wheel scientific, pickin' out the deep water by the difference in color, and lettin' theAgnesfade away behind us as careless as if we had a return ticket.
"Excuse me for remarkin'," says I; "but, while I wouldn't be strong for this sort of excursion as a general thing, with just you and me on the passenger list I don't care if—"
"Blow the horn," cuts in Vee.
Yep, I blew. Over miles and miles of glassy water I blew it, listenin' every now and then for an answer. All I raised, though, was a bird squawk or so; and once we scared up a flock of white herons that sailed off like so many ghosts. Another time some big black things rolled out of the way almost alongside.
"What's them—whales?" I gasps.
"Porpoises," says Vee. "Keep on blowing."
"I'll be qualified as captain of a fish wagon before I'm through," says I. "Looks like that explorin' trio had gone and lost themselves for fair, don't it?"
"They must be somewhere among these islands," says Vee. "They couldn't have gone out on the Gulf, could they?"
We asked each other a lot of questions that neither one of us knew the answer to. It sort of helped pass the time. And we certainly did do a thorough job of paging, for we cruised in and out of every little cove, and around every point we came to; and I kept the horn goin' until I was as shy on breath as a fat lady comin' out of the subway.
It was while I was restin' a bit that I got to explorin' one of the boat lockers, and dug up this Roman-candle affair that Vee said I might touch off. And it hadn't burned half way down before I spots an answerin' glow 'way off to the left.
"We've raised someone, anyway," says I.
"We'll know who it is soon," says Vee, turnin' the wheel.
Five minutes later and we got a reply to our horn—four long blasts.
"That means distress," says Vee. "Answer with three short ones."
A mile or so further on, as we swings wide around the end of an island where a shoal sticks out, we comes in sight of this big motor-boat lyin' quiet a couple of hundred feet off-shore with three people in it.
"There they are, thank goodness!" says Vee, shuttin' off the engine and lettin' the boat drift in towards 'em slow.
"Hello, there!" I calls out.
"That you, Torchy?" asks Old Hickory, anxious.
"Yep!" says I. "Me and Vee."
"Bully for you youngsters!" says he. "I might have known it would be you two who would find us."
"Verona, I am astonished," gasps Auntie.
"Yes, I thought you would be," says Vee. "What's the matter?"
"Matter!" snaps Auntie. "We're stuck in the mud, and have been for hours. Look out or you'll run aground, too."
But our boat wasn't half the size of theirs, and by polin' careful we got alongside.
My first move is to reach a handful of cigars to the boss.
"Heaven be praised!" says he, lightin' one up eager.
Meanwhile Vee is pourin' out some hot coffee from the picnic bottles. That and the sandwiches seemed to sort of soothe things all around, and we got a sketch of their troubles.
Just as Vee had suspected, Rupert had started out to show 'em the island where the treasure was. Oh, he was sure he could take 'em right to it.
"And we went blithering and blundering around for half the night," says Old Hickory, "until this marvel of marine intelligence ran us hard and fast aground here, where we've been ever since."
"I—I got turned around," protests Rupert.
"We admit that," says Old Hickory. "I will even concede that you are swivel-brained and couldn't help it. But that fails to explain why you should invent for our benefit any such colossal whopper as that treasure-island fiction."
"No fiction about it," grumbles Rupert, his voice a bit husky, either from indignation or chicken sandwich, we couldn't tell which. "And I'll find it yet," he adds.
"You will have ample opportunity," says Old Hickory, "for when we leave here you will be left also. You may make a life job of it, if you wish."
"We ought to be getting back," says Auntie. "Will that little boat hold us all?"
"Why, this one is afloat now," announces Vee. "The tide must have come in."
"And here we've been sitting, like so many cabbage heads on a bench, waiting for someone to come and tell us about it!" snorts Old Hickory. "Excellent! Killam, do you think you can pilot us back without trying to cut new channels through the State of Florida?"
Rupert don't make any promises, but he gets busy; and pretty soon we're under way. It's about then that I springs this hunch of mine.
"Say, Mr. Ellins," says I, "was this island you were lookin' for a little one with a hump in the middle?"
"That tallies with Captain Killam's description," says he. "Why?"
"Well," I goes on, "a little while before we located you we passed one like that. Don't you remember, Vee?"
"That's so," says Vee; "we did. I know right where it is, too."
"We might take a glance at it," says Old Hickory. "Killam, give Miss Verona the wheel."
I couldn't have said exactly which way to go, but Vee never hesitates a second. She steers straight back on the course we'd come, and inside of fifteen minutes we shoots past a point and opens up a whole clump of islands, with one tiny one tucked away in the middle.
"That's it!" shouts Rupert, jumpin' up and down. "That's Nunca Secos Key!"
"Maybe," says Old Hickory. "There does seem to be something of an elevation in the center. Let's run in as close as we can, Verona."
By this time we were all grouped in the bow, stretchin' our necks and gazin' interested.
"The mound!" suddenly sings out Rupert, pointin' excited. "The treasure mound! I told you I'd find it."
"Huh!" says Old Hickory. "You forgot to mention, however, that you would need Miss Verona and Torchy to do the finding for you."
Well, no need goin' into details, but that's how Vee and me happened to get counted in as reg'lar treasure hunters, to share and share alike. We was elected right on the spot.
"And now," says Old Hickory, grabbin' up a spade from the bottom of the boat, "now we—"
"Now we will go back to the yacht and get some sleep," announces Auntie. "I've had treasure hunting enough for one night. So have you, Matthew Ellins, if you only knew it."
Old Hickory shrugs his shoulders. He drops the spade. Then he lets go of a yawn.
"Oh, well!" says he. "If that's the way you feel about it."
"What!" says Vee. "Go another whole day without knowing whether—"
"Certainly," cuts in Auntie. "I'm so sleepy I couldn't tell a doubloon from a doughnut. Ho-ho-hum! Let's be getting back."
It wasn't much after six when we made the yacht, but the whole crew seems to be up and stirrin' around. As we comes alongside they sort of groups themselves into a gawp committee forward, and I caught them passin' the smile and nudge to each other. The two sailors that mans the landin' stairs are on the broad grin. It's well for them that neither Auntie nor Old Hickory seems to notice. I did, though, and trails behind the others gettin' out.
"What's all the comedy for?" I demands.
"Nothing at all, sir," says one.
Then the other breaks in with, "Any luck, sir?"
"Sure!" says I. "We saw a swell sunrise."
I'm wonderin', though, why all them hired hands should be givin' us the merry face.
I don't mind admittin' that this treasure-huntin' stuff does get you. Course, while I was only an outsider, with no ticket even for a brokerage bite at the gate receipts, I wasn't runnin' any temperature over the prospects.
But now it was different. Vee and I had gone out and shown this poor prune of a Captain Killam where his bloomin' island was, we'd rescued Auntie and Old Hickory from bein' stuck in the mud, and we'd been officially counted in as possible prize winners. More'n that, we'd seen the treasure mound.
"Torchy," says Vee, the first chance we has for a few side remarks after lunch that day, "what do you think? Is it full of gold and jewels?"
"Well," says I, tryin' to look wise, "it might be, mightn't it? And then again you can't always tell."
"But suppose it is?" insists Vee, her gray eyes bigger than ever.
"I can't," says I. "It's too much of a strain. Honest, from what I've seen of the country down here, it would be a miracle to run across a single loose dollar, while as for uncoverin' it in bunches— Say, Vee, how much of this pirate guff do you stand for, anyway?"
"Why, you silly," says she. "Of course there were pirates—Lafitte and José Gaspar and—and a lot of others. They robbed ships right off here and naturally they buried their treasure when they came ashore."
"What simps!" says I. "Then they went off and forgot, eh?"
"Some were caught and hanged," says she, "and I suppose some were killed fighting. No one can tell. It was all so long ago, you see. They're all gone. But the islands are still here, aren't they?"
"I don't miss any," says I. "There's the mound, too. It's big enough to hold forty truckloads."
"Oh, there won't be that much," says she. "A few chests, perhaps. But think, Torchy, of digging up gold that has been lying there for a hundred years or more!"
"I don't care how old it is," says I, "if it's the kind you can shove in at the receivin' teller and get credit for. What you plannin' to blow your share against?"
"I hadn't thought much about that," says Vee. "Only that I once saw the loveliest girdle made of old coins."
Isn't that the girl of it!
"You're a wonder, Vee," says I. "Here you stand to have a bundle of easy money wished on you, and all you can think of is winnin' a fancy belt."
Vee giggles good-natured.
"Well, Mister Solomon, what would you do with yours?"
"Swap it for as many blocks of Corrugated preferred as my broker could collect," says I. "Then when we declared an extra dividend—"
"Pooh!" says Vee. "You and Auntie are just alike."
"Wouldn't it cheer Auntie up a lot to hear that?" says I. "I expect she's busy spendin' her share, too."
"I should say," announces Vee, "that we had all better be planning how to get that treasure on board the yacht. Captain Killam says we mustn't go there by day, you know, because someone might follow us. Then there's the crew. I wonder if they suspect anything?"
Come to find out, that was what we was all wonderin'. Course, Rupert would be the first to develop a case of nerves. He reports that he's come across groups of 'em whisperin' mysterious. Which reminds Auntie that she'd noticed something of the kind, too. Even Mr. Ellins admits that some of the men had acted sort of queer. And right while we're holdin' our confab someone looks around and discovers that a sailor has drifted up sleuthy almost within earshot.
"Hey, you!" calls out Old Hickory. "What are you doing there?"
"Just touching up the brasswork, sir," says he.
"Do your touching up some other time," orders Old Hickory. "Forward with you!"
"Yes, sir," says the party in the white jumper, and sneaks off.
"Listening!" says Rupert. "That's what he was doing."
"Who knows what they may be plotting," says Auntie, "or what sort of men they are? Sailors are apt to be such desperate characters. Why, we might all be murdered in our beds!"
"As likely as not," says Rupert gloomy.
And you know how catchin' an idea like that is. Up to then we hadn't taken much notice of the crew, no more'n you do of the help anywhere. Oh, we'd got so we could tell the deck stewards apart. One was a squint-eyed little Cockney that misplaced his aitches, but was always on hand when you wanted anything. Another was a tall, lanky Swede who was always "Yust coomin', sir." Then there was the bristly-haired Hungarian we called Goulash. They'd all seemed harmless enough before; but now we took to sizin' 'em up close. At dinner, when they was servin' things, I glanced around and found all four of our treasure-huntin' bunch followin' every move made. The usual table chatter had stopped, too.
"Why!" says Mrs. Mumford, springin' that silly laugh of hers, "it must be twenty minutes of."
Nobody says a word, for Ole and Goulash was servin' the fish course. You could see they was fussed, too. It was a queer sort of dinner-party. I could tell by the look of Old Hickory's eyes that something was coming from him. And sure enough, after coffee had been passed, he proceeds to tackle the situation square and solid, like he always does. He waves off the stewards and sends for Lennon, the yacht captain.
One of these chunky, square-jawed gents, Captain Lennon is, and about as sociable as a traffic cop on duty. His job is runnin' the yacht, and he sticks to it.
"Captain," says Mr. Ellins, "I want to know something about your crew. What are they like, now?"
The Cap looks sort of puzzled.
"Why, they're all right, I guess," says he.
"Please don't guess," cuts in Auntie. "Are they all good, responsible, steady-going trust-worthy men, on whose character you can absolutely depend?"
"I couldn't say, madam," says he. "We don't get 'em from divinity schools."
"Of course not," chimes in Old Hickory. "What we really want to know is this: Do your men suspect what we are here for?"
The Captain nods.
"How much do they know—er—about the buried treasure, for instance?" demands Old Hickory.
Captain Lennon shrugs his shoulders.
"About twice as much as is so, I suppose," says he. "They're great gossips, sailors—worse than so many old women."
"Huh!" grunts Mr. Ellins. "And about how long have they known all this?"
"I overheard some of them talking about it before we sailed," says the Captain. "There were those new shovels and picks, you know; perhaps those set them guessing. Anyway, they were passing the word from the first."
Mr. Ellins shakes his head and glances at Killam. Auntie presses her lips tight and stares from one to the other.
"This is serious," says Old Hickory. "Why didn't you tell us of this before?"
"Why," says Captain Lennon, "I didn't think you'd like it, sir. And I've warned the men."
"Warned them against what?" asks Old Hickory.
"Against showing their grins above decks," says the Captain. "Of course, I can't stop their having their jokes in their own quarters."
"Jokes?" echoes Mr. Ellins.
"Jokes!" gasps Auntie.
Captain Lennon hunches his shoulders again.
"I thought you wouldn't like it, sir," says he; "but that's the way they look at it. I've told them it was none of their business what you folks did; that you could afford to hunt for buried treasure, or buried beans, or buried anything else, if you wanted to. And if you'll report one of them even winking disrespectful, or showing the trace of a grin, I'll set him and his ditty bag ashore so quick—"
"Thank you, Captain," breaks in Mr. Ellins, kind of choky; "that—that will be all."
You should have seen the different expressions around that table after the Captain has gone. I don't know that I ever saw Old Hickory actually look sheepish before. As for Auntie, she's almost ready to blow a fuse.
"Well," says she explosive. "I like that! Jokes, are we?"
"So it appears," says Mr. Ellins. "At any rate, we seem to be in no danger from a mutinous crew. Our little enterprise merely amuses them."
"Pooh!" says Auntie. "Ignorant sailors! What do they know about—"
But just then there booms in through the portholes this hearty hail from outside:
"Ahoy theAgnes! Who's aboard there? Wha-a-a-at! Mr. Ellins, of New York. Well, well! Hey, you! Fend off there. I'm coming in."
"Megrue!" says Old Hickory. "If it isn't I'll—"
It was, all right: Bernard J. Megrue, one of our biggest Western customers, president of a couple of railroads, and director in a lot of companies that's more or less close to the Corrugated Trust. He's a husk, Barney Megrue is—big and breezy, with crisp iron-gray hair, lively black eyes, and all the gentle ways of a section boss.
He's got up in a complete khaki rig, includin' shirt and hat to match, and below the eyebrows he has a complexion like a mahogany sideboard. It don't take him long to make himself right to home among us.
"Well, well!" says he, workin' a forced draught on one of Old Hickory's choice cassadoras. "Who'd ever think of running across you down here? After tarpon, eh? That's me, too. Hung up my third fish for the season only yesterday; a beauty, too—hundred and sixty-three pounds—and it took me just two hours and forty-five minutes to make the kill. But say, Ellins, this is no stand for real strikes. Now, you move up to Boca Grande to-morrow and I'll show you fishing that's something like."
"Thanks, Barney," says Old Hickory, "but I'm no whaler. In fact, I'm no fisherman at all."
"Oh, I see," says Megrue. "Just cruising, eh? Well, that's all right if you like it. People come to Florida for all sorts of things. Which reminds me of something rich. Heard it from my boatman. He tells me there's a party of New York folks down here hunting for pirate gold. Haw, haw! How about that, eh?"
Embarrassin' pause. Very. Nobody dared look at anybody else. At least, I didn't. I was waverin' between a gasp and a snicker, and was nearly chokin' over it, when Old Hickory clears his throat raspy and menacin'.
"Well, what about it?" he asks snappy.
"Why," says Megrue, "it seems too good to be true, that's all. As I told the boys up at the hotel, if there are any real treasure-hunting bugs around, I want to get a good look at 'em—especially if they're from New York. That's one on you, eh, Ellins? Proves you have a few folks in the big town who have bats in their belfries, don't it?"
That gets an uneasy squirm out of Old Hickory, but he comes right back at him.
"Just why?" he demands.
"Why, great Scott, Ellins," goes on Megrue enthusiastic, "don't you know that buried treasure stuff is the stalest kind of tourist bait in use on the whole Florida coast? The hotel people have been handing that out for the past fifty years. Wouldn't think anyone could be still found who'd bite at it, would you? But it seems they exist. Every once in a while a new lot of come-ons show up, with their old charts and their nice new shovels, and go to digging. Why, I was shown a place just north of Little Gasparilla—Cotton River, they call it—where the banks have been dug up for miles by these simple-minded nuts.
"Every now and then, too, they circulate that musty tale about an old Spaniard, in Tampa or Fort Myers or somewhere, who whispers deathbed directions about finding a chest of gold buried at the foot of a lone palmetto on some key or other. And say, they tell me there isn't a lone tree on this section of the coast that hasn't been dug up by the roots. Good old human nature can't be downed, can it? You can suppress the green-goods and gold-brick games, but folks will still go to shoveling sand if you mention pirates to 'em. What I want is to see 'em at it once."
The harder you jolt Old Hickory, though, the steadier he gets.
"Huh!" says he, smilin' sarcastic. "An ambition such as yours ought to be gratified. Take a good look at us, Megrue."
"Wha-a-a-at!" gasps Barney, starin' at him. "You—you don't mean that—that—"
"Precisely," says Old Hickory. "We are the crack-brained New Yorkers you are so anxious to see."
Well, when he recovers his breath he does his best to square himself. He apologizes four different ways, gettin' in deeper with every turn, until finally he edges towards the stairs and makes his escape.
"At least," remarks Old Hickory, "I suppose it is something to provide a source of innocent merriment. I trust we are not overlooking anyone who might wish to be amused."
Before the evenin' was over he had his answer. About eight-thirty out comes a fast motor-boat and ties up alongside without askin' leave. Reporters, two of 'em. They climbs up, grinnin' and amiable, specially the fat one in the tight-fittin' Palm Beach suit. They wanted to know when we was goin' to start digging and if we'd mind their bringin' out a movie machine, so one of 'em could get a few hundred feet of film for a picture news service that he represented.
"It ought to be great stuff," says Fatty.
"Young man," says Old Hickory, breathin' hard and talkin' through his teeth, "have you any idea what a splash you'd make if you were dropped overboard?"
"Oh, come, guv'nor," protests Fatty; "we only want to—"
About then, though, he decides to make a scramble for his boat and the interview was off. Old Hickory stands glarin' after the pair until they're out of sight. Then he chuckles unpleasant.
"For a private, not to say secret, enterprise," says he, "it occurs to me that ours is rather well advertised. What next, I wonder?"
"There's a big boat headed this way on the other side," says I. "Seems to me I hear a band, too."
"Excursionists!" says Auntie. "Do you suppose they would have the impudence?"
"Looks like a moonlight round trip, with theAgnesas the object of interest," says I. "Yep! They've got the searchlight on us."
"This is insufferable!" says Auntie, and beats it below, to lock herself in her stateroom.
"Gr-r-r-r!" remarks Old Hickory, and follows suit.
We never did trace out who had done such thorough press work for us; but I have my suspicions it was the chief steward, who went ashore reg'lar every morning after milk and cream. But the round-trippers surely was well posted. We could hear 'em talkin' us over, shoutin' their comments above the rumble of the engine.
Vee and I didn't want to miss any of it, so we hikes up on the bridge and camps behind the canvas spray shield. Captain Lennon come up, too, sort of standin' guard. It was 'most like bein' under fire in the trenches.
"That's her—theAgnesof New York!" we heard 'em sing out. "My, what a perfectly swell yacht, Minnie! Ain't they the boobs, though? Hey, Sam, why dontcher ask them squirrels can they make a noise like a nut? Huntin' pirate gold, are they? Who's been kiddin' 'em that way?"
"Little sample of Southern hospitality, I expect," says I. "All they lack is a few ripe eggs and some garden confetti."
"I wonder if Auntie can hear?" giggles Vee. "Do you know what this makes me feel like? As if I were a person in a cartoon."
"You've said it," says I. "What I mind most, though, is that fresh gink with the searchlight. Say, Cap'n, why couldn't we turn ours loose at him as a come-back?"
"Go ahead," says Captain Lennon, throwin' a switch.
Say, that was a great little thought, for theAgneshas a high-powered glim, and when I swung it onto that excursion boat it made theirs look like a boardin'-house gas jet with the pressure low. You could see the folks blinkin' and battin' their eyes as if they was half blinded. Nest I picks up the pilot house and gives the man at the wheel the full benefit.
"Hey! Take off that light," he sings out. "I can't see where I'm runnin'. Take it off!"
"Switch off yours, then, you mutt," says I, "and run your cheap sandwich gang back where they belong under the hominy vines."
My, don't that raise a howl, though! They wanted to mob us for keeps then, and all sorts of junk begun to fly through the air. Then Cap'n Lennon took a hand.
"Sheer off there!" he orders, "or I'll turn the fire hose on yon."
Well, the excursion captain stayed long enough to pass the time of day, but when he saw the sailors unreelin' the hose he got a move on; and in half an hour we was lyin' quiet again in the moonlight.
Must have been well on towards midnight, and I was just ready to turn in when Mr. Ellins comes paddin' out of his stateroom, luggin' two pairs of hip rubber boots.
"Torchy," says he, "call Killam, will you?"
By the time I'd routed out Rupert, I finds Auntie and Vee waitin' in the main cabin, all dressed for travel.
"I may be the oldest joke on record," says Old Hickory, "but I propose to know before morning what is in that mound. Of course, if anyone feels foolish about going—"
"I do, for one," speaks up Auntie, "and I should think you would, too, Matthew Ellins. We've been told how silly we are enough times to-night, haven't we?"
"We have," says Old Hickory. "Which is just why I propose to see this thing through."
"And I am quite as stubborn as you are," says Auntie. "That is why I am going, too."
Vee and I didn't put up any apologies. We just trailed along silent. As for Rupert, he'd been kicked around so much the last few days that he hadn't a word to say. Here he was, too, right on the verge of the big test that he'd been workin' up to so long, and he's so meek he hardly dares open his head. When we starts pilin' into the launch he shows up with a couple of bundles.
"What the syncopated seraphims have you there?" demands Old Hickory.
"Gas bombs," says Rupert. "To clear out the snakes."
"Careful with 'em," growls Old Hickory. "What else?"
"A few canvas bags for—for the treasure, sir," says Rupert, duckin' his head sheepish. "Shall—shall I put them in?"
"Oh, you might as well," says Old Hickory.
And once more, with Vee at the wheel, we sneaks off in the moonlight for Nunca Secos Key. We wasn't a chatty lot of adventurers. I expect we all felt like we was about to open an April fool package, and wished the others hadn't been there to watch. None of us could pass anyone else the laugh; that was some satisfaction.
There was enough outsiders, though, to give us the titter. Megrue was sure to spread the tale among Old Hickory's business friends. And who knew what that pair of foiled interviewers would do to us? Some of their stuff might get into the New York papers. Then wouldn't Mr. Ellins be let in for a choice lot of joshin'! No wonder he sits chewin' savage at a cold cigar.
When we gets near the little island, though, he rouses up. He pulls on a pair of wadin' boots and, tosses another pair to me. Rupert, he's all fixed up for rough work, and even Vee has brought some high huntin' shoes.
So, when we lands, each takes a shiny new spade or a pick and makes ready to explore the mound that looms mysterious through the mangrove bushes. First off, Rupert has to toss out a couple of gas bombs, in case there might be rattlers roamin' around. And, believe me, any snake that could stand that smell was entitled to stay on the ground. It's ten or fifteen minutes before we dared go near ourselves. Rupert suggests that we start a tunnel in from the bottom, and sort of relay each other as our wind gives out.
"Very well," says Old Hickory. "It's a good many years since I did any excavating, but I think I can still swing a pick."
Say, he could; that is, for a five-minute stretch. And while he's restin' up I tackles it. I didn't last so long, either. Rupert, though, comes out strong. He makes the sand fly at a great rate. Vee stands by, holdin' an electric torch, while Auntie watches from the boat.
"We're makin' quite a hole in it, Mr. Ellins," says I, sort of encouragin'.
"It is the usual thing to do, I believe," says he, "before owning up that you've been fooled. Here, Killam, let me have another go at that."
He don't do it because he's excited about it, but just because it's his turn. In fact, we'd all got to about that stage. We'd shoveled out a wagon load or two of old roots and sand and rotten shells without uncoverin' so much as a rusty nail, and it looked like we might keep on until mornin' with the same amazin' success. Considerin' that we was half beaten before we started, we'd done a pretty fair job. It was just a question now of how soon somebody'd have nerve enough to make a motion that we quit. That's when we had our first little flutter.
"Huh!" says Old Hickory, jabbin' in with his spade. "Must have struck a log. Hand me a pick, someone."
"When he makes a swing with that, the point goes in solid and sticks.
"Right! It is a log," he announces.
Killam tests it, and he says it's a log, too.
"An old palmetto trunk," says he, proddin' at it. "Two of them, one laid on the other. No, three. I say, that's funny. Let's clear away all of this stuff."
So we goes at it, all three at once, and inside of fifteen minutes we can see what looks like the side of a little log cabin.
"If this was out in Wisconsin," says Old Hickory, "I should say we'd found somebody's root cellar. But who would build such a thing in Florida?"
"Come on," says Killam, his voice sort of shrill and quivery. "I have one of the logs loose. Now pry here with your picks, everybody. Together, now! It's coming! Once more! There! Now the next one above. Oh, put your weight on it, Mr. Ellins. Get a fresh hold. Try her now. It's giving! Again. Harder. Look out for your toes! And let's have that light here, Miss Verona. Flash it into this hole. Isn't that a—a—"
"It's a barrel," says Vee.
"Water butt," says Killam. "An old ship's water butt. There are the staves of another, fallen apart. And look! Will—you—look, all of you!"
Would we? Say, we was crowded around that black hole in the mound as thick as noon lunchers at a pie counter. And we was strainin' our eyes to see what the faint light of the torch was tryin' to show up. All of a sudden I reaches in and makes a grab at something, bringin' out a fistful.
"Hard money," says I, "or I don't know the feel!"
"Why, it—it's gold!" says Vee, bringin' her flashlight close.
"There's more of it, a lot more!" shouts Killam, who has his head and shoulders inside and is pawin' around excited. "Quarts and quarts of it! And jewels, too! I say, Mr. Ellins! Jewels! Didn't I tell you we'd find 'em? See, here they are. See those! And those! Didn't I say so?"
"You did, Captain," admits Old Hickory. "You certainly did. And for a time I was just ass enough to believe you, wasn't I?"
"Oh, Auntie!" calls Vee. "We've found it! Honest to goodness we have. Come and see."
"As though I wasn't coming as fast as I could, child!" says Auntie, who has scrambled over the bow somehow and is plowin' towards us with her skirts gripped high on either side.
Thrillin'! Say, I don't believe any of us could tell just what we did do for the next half hour or so. I remember once Old Hickory got jammed into the hole and we had to pry him out. And another time, when we was rollin' out the cask, it was Auntie who helped me pull it through and ease it down the slope. She'd lost most of her hairpins and her gray hair was hangin' down her back. Also, she'd stepped on the front of her skirt and ripped off a breadth. But them trifles didn't seem to bother her a bit.
"Ho, ho!" she warbles merry. "Gold and jewels! The jewels of old Spain and of the days of Louis Fourteenth. Pirate gold! We've dug it! The very thing I've always wanted to do ever since I was a little girl. Ho, ho!"
"And I rather guess," adds Old Hickory, fishin' a broken cigar out of his vest pocket, "that as treasure hunters we're not such thundering jokes, after all. Eh?"
And say, when Old Hickory starts crowin' you can know he sees clear through to daylight. I looks over my shoulder just then, and, sure enough, it's beginnin' to pink up in the east.
"My dope is," says I, "that it's goin' to be a large, wide day. Anyhow, it opens well."