“Any hotel in this place?” he asked of the ticket agent, the telegraph operator, and the baggageman, who was pushing a crate of vegetables off a truck.

“Swan’s Hotel; only one.”

“Do people sleep and eat there?”

“If they have good digestions.”

“Much obliged.”

“Whisky’s no good, either.”

“Thanks again.  This doesn’t look much like a summer resort.”

“Nobody ever said it was.  I beg your pardon, but would you mind taking an end of this darned crate?”

“Not at all.”  Fitzgerald was beginning to enjoy himself.  “Where do you want it?”

“In here,” indicating the baggage-room.  “Thanks.  Now, if there’s anything I can do to help you in return, let her go.”

“Is there a house hereabouts called the top o’ the hill?”

“Come over here,” said the agent.  “See that hill back there, quarter of a mile above the village; those three lights?  Well, that’s it.  They usually have a carriage down here when they’re expecting any one.”

“Who owns it?”

“Old Admiral Killigrew.  Didn’t you know it?”

“Oh, Admiral Killigrew; yes, of course.  I’m not a guest.  Just going up there on business.  Worth about ten millions, isn’t he?”

“That and more.  There’s his yacht in the harbor.  Oh, he could burn up the village, pay the insurance, and not even knock down the quality of his cigars.  He’s the best old chap out.  None of your red-faced, yo-hoing, growling seadogs; just a kindly, generous old sailor, with only one bee in his bonnet.”

“What sort of bee?”

“Pirates!” in a ghostly whisper.

“Pirates?  Oh, say, now!” with a protest.

“Straight as a die.  He’s got the finest library on piracy in the world, everything from The Pirates of Penzance to The Life of Morgan.”

“But there’s no pirate afloat these days.”

“Not on the high seas, no.  It’s just the old man’s pastime.  Every so often, he coals up the yacht, which is a seventeen-knotter, and goes off to the South Seas, hunting for treasures.”

“By George!” Fitzgerald whistled softly.  “Has he ever found any?”

“Not so much as a postage stamp, so far as I know.  Money’s always been in the family, and his Wall Street friends have shown him how to double what he has, from time to time.  Just for the sport of the thing some old fellows go in for crockery, some for pictures, and some for horses.  The admiral just hunts treasures.  Half-past six; you’ll excuse me.  There’ll be some train despatches in a minute.”

Fitzgerald gave him a good cigar, took up his bag, and started off for the main street; and once there he remembered with chagrin that he had not asked the agent the most important thing of all:  Had the admiral a daughter?  Well, at eight o’clock he would learn all about that.  Pirates!  It would be as good as a play.  But where did he come in?  And why was courage necessary?  His interest found new life.