Wilt Thou Torchy Part 40

"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 bra.s.swork, 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 c.o.c.kney 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."

n.o.body 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 pa.s.sed, 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 pa.s.sing 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 ash.o.r.e 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 the _Agnes_! 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' s.h.i.+rt 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 ca.s.sadoras. "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 fis.h.i.+ng that's something like."