Part 37 (1/2)

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 fis.h.i.+ng.”

”Fis.h.!.+” 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 fis.h.i.+n' 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.