“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 ashore 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’ shirt 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 cassadoras.  “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 fishing that’s something like.”

“Thanks, Barney,” says Old Hickory, “but I’m no whaler.  In fact, I’m no fisherman at all.”

“Oh, I see,” says Megrue.  “Just cruising, eh?  Well, that’s all right if you like it.  People come to Florida for all sorts of things.  Which reminds me of something rich.  Heard it from my boatman.  He tells me there’s a party of New York folks down here hunting for pirate gold.  Haw, haw!  How about that, eh?”