It looked like a case of watchin' out for the stick to come down.

Uh-huh! The good yacht _Agnes_ had 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 a.s.sorted campaign b.u.t.tons.

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 the _Agnes_ had 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 h.o.a.rd, 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 n.o.body 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 p.u.s.s.y-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 the _Agnes_. 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 gla.s.s 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 sh.o.r.es 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 pa.s.sed 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 anch.o.r.ed 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 pa.s.ses 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 sh.o.r.e 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."