CHAPTER XI

A JOLT FROM OLD HICKORY

You know Old Hickory Ellins ain't what you might call a sunshine distributor. His disposition would hardly remind you of a placid pool at morn, or the end of a perfect day. Not as a rule. Sort of a cross between a March blizzard and a July thunderstorm would hit it nearer.

Honest, sometimes when he has started on a rampage through the general offices here, I've seen the bond-room clerks grip their desks like they expected to be blown through the windows; and the sickly green tinge on Piddie's face when he comes out from a hectic ten minutes with the big boss is as good a trouble barometer as you'd want.

Even on average days, when Corrugated affairs seem to be runnin'

smooth, Mr. Ellins is apt to come down with a lumbago grouch or develop shootin' pains in the knee, and then anybody who ducks gettin' in range of that snappy sarcasm of his is lucky.

Not that he always means it, or that he's generally disliked. As soon as it's safe, the bond clerks grin at each other and the lady typists go to yankin' away on their gum placid. They know n.o.body's ever had the can tied to 'em from this joint without good cause. Also, they've come to expect about so many growls a day from Old Hickory.

But say, they don't know what to make of him this last week or so.

Twice he's been late, three days runnin' he's quit early, and in all that time he ain't raised a blessed howl about anything. Not only that, but the other mornin' he blew in wearin' a carnation in his b.u.t.ton-hole and hummin' a tune. I saw Piddie watch him with his eyes bugged, and the battery of typists let out a sort of chorus gasp as the door of his private office shut behind him.

Finally Mr. Robert beckons me over and remarks confidential:

"Torchy, have you--er--noticed anything peculiar about the governor these last few days?"

"Could I help it?" says I.

"Ah!" says he. "Somewhat rare, such moods. I've been wondering. He has hinted to me that he might start on some sort of a cruise soon."

"Has he?" says I, tryin' to look surprised.

"You don't suppose, Torchy," Mr. Robert goes on, "that the governor really means to go after that buried treasure?"

"Mr. Robert," says I, "I ain't sayin' a word."

"By Jove!" says he. "So that's the way it stands? Well, you haven't told me anything. And, do you know, I am beginning to think it would be a fine thing for him to do. It would get his mind off business, give him an outing, and--er--simplify our negotiations in that Ishpeming deal. I think I shall encourage his going."

"If you want to make it doubtful, I would," says I.

"Eh?" says Mr. Robert. "You mean-- Well, I'm not sure but that you're right. I'll do just the opposite, then--suggest that he'll not like cruising, and remind him that the Corrugated has a critical season ahead of it. By the way, what sort of a boat has he chartered?"

"At last accounts," says I, "they hadn't found one that suited. You see, Auntie won't stand for a gasoline engine, and--"

"Do I understand that Mrs. Hemmingway is going, too?" gasps Mr. Robert.

I nods.

"She's one of the partners," says I. "Kind of a particular old girl, too, when it comes to yachts. I judge she wants something about half way between a Cunarder and a ten-room flat; something wide and substantial."

Mr. Robert grins. "They ought to be told about the _Agnes_," says he.

"What about her?" says I.

"Why," says he, "she's the marine antique that Ollie Wade inherited from his uncle, the old Commodore. A fine boat in her day, too, but a trifle obsolete now: steam, of course, and a scandalous coal eater.

Slow, too; ten knots is her top speed. But she's a roomy, comfortable old tub, and Ollie would be glad to get her off his hands for a month or two. Suppose I--"

"Would you mind, Mr. Robert," I breaks in, "if I discovered the _Agnes_ for 'em? I might boost my battin' average with Auntie; and maybe I could work Ollie for a commission."

"Here!" says Mr. Robert, shovin' over the desk 'phone. "Make him give you five per cent. at least. Here's his number."

So that's how it happens I come to be pilotin' this trio of treasure hunters--Auntie, Old Hickory, and Captain Rupert Killam--over to a South Brooklyn yacht basin and exhibitin' the _Agnes_. You'd never guess, either, from the way she's all painted up fresh, that she was the A. Y. C. flagship as far back as the early nineties.

"What a nice, wide boat!" says Auntie.

"Beam enough for a battleship," grumbles Rupert.

"I do hope," goes on Auntie, "that the staterooms are something more than cubbyholes."

"Let's take a look," says I, producin' the keys.

Ollie had mentioned specially the main saloon, but I wasn't lookin' for anything half so grand. Why, you could almost give a ball in it. Had a square piano and a fireplace, too.

"Huh!" says Old Hickory. "Quite a craft."

It was when we got to the two suites, one on each side of the companionway 'midships, that Auntie got real enthusiastic; for, besides the bra.s.s beds and full-sized bathtubs, they had clothes closets, easy chairs, and writin' desks.

"Excellent!" says she. "But what are those queer overhead pipes for, I wonder?"

"Must be for the cold-air system Mr. Wade was tellin' me about," says I.

"Oh, yes," adds Old Hickory. "I remember now. This is the boat Commodore Wade went up the Orinoco in, and he had her fitted for tropical cruising. How many staterooms in all, did you say, son?"

"Twelve, outside of the crew's quarters," says I.

"Regular floating hotel," says Old Hickory. "We shall not be crowded for room, Mrs. Hemmingway."

"Then why not ask some of our friends to go with us?" suggests Auntie.

"There are one or two I should like to take along for companionship.

And it will not look so much like an expedition if we make up a cruising party."

"Very well," says Old Hickory; "that's not a bad idea. We'll decide on this boat, then?"

Captain Killam tried to point out that the _Agnes_ was a bigger craft than they needed, and that she didn't look as if she had much speed.

But Auntie had already planned how she could camp comfortable in one of them suites, and Old Hickory had discovered that the yacht sported a wireless outfit. Hanged if each one of 'em didn't talk like they'd found the _Agnes_ all by themselves, or had her built to order! I got about as much credit as if I hadn't been along at all.

I felt a little better about that two hours later, when I'd hunted up Ollie at his club, shoved a thousand dollar check at him, and got his name on a charter agreement.

"I say, you know," says Ollie, "awfully good of you to do this."

"I'm like that all the time," says I, pocketin' my fifty commission.

"I'll rent the _Agnes_ out for you any old day, so long as I don't have to go battin' around on her myself."

Course, if it was just a case of sailin' down to Coney and back, or maybe runnin' up the Hudson as far as Yonkers, I'd take a chance. But this pikin' right out past Sandy Hook, and then goin' on for days and days, leavin' Broadway further behind every turn of the shaft--that's different. You're liable to get so far away.