We was a long, long ways from either taxis or traffic cops, though.  We was on Nunca Secos Key, with the Gulf of Mexico murmurin’ gentle behind us, and out in front a big red sun was blazin’ through the black pines that edge the west coast of Florida.  Five of us, includin’ Vee and Captain Rupert Killam and me; and each in our own peculiar way was registerin’ the Pollyanna-Mrs. Wiggs stuff.

Why not?  For one thing, it’s about as handsome a December mornin’ as you could dream of—­the air soft and mild, with a clean, salty smell to it that sort of gives you a romantic hunch every sniff you pump in.

But the big reason for this early-mornin’ joyfest of ours—­ Well, there’s the pirate treasure, almost enough to load a pushcart with.  You know how you feel when you pluck a stray quarter from the L stairs, or maybe retrieve a dollar bill that’s been playin’ hide-and-seek in the gutter?  Multiply that by the thrill you’d get if you’d had your salary raised and been offered par for a block of industrials that had been wished on you at ten a share, all in the same day.  Then you’ll have a vague idea of how chirky we was at 5:30 A.M. as we stood around in front of that mound we’d torn open, gawpin’ first at the heap of loot and then at each other.

Simple way to pass the time, eh?  But, somehow, we couldn’t seem to take it in that we’d actually done the trick.  I know I couldn’t.  I’ve always kidded myself along, too, that I was something of a speed artist when it came to framin’ up a situation.  I expect we all hand ourselves little floral offerings like that.  But when we get up against anything really new—­that is, some sensation we ain’t happened to meet before—­we find we ain’t such hair-trigger propositions, after all.  We catches ourselves doin’ the open-face act, while the little stranger idea stands tappin’ patient on the wood.

Course, treasure huntin’ was just what had lured us so far from home.  For nearly three weeks, now, that had been the big notion.  But cruisin’ around in a yacht lookin’ for pirate gold as sort of a freaky lark is one thing, while actually diggin’ it out and seein’ it heaped before you on the sand is another.

Maybe Captain Killam was expectin’ to carry the game this far.  He’s just cocky enough for that.  But it’s plain to see that Auntie and Mr. Ellins had been playin’ a long shot just for the sport of holdin’ a ticket and watchin’ the wheel turn.  As for me and Vee, we’d pooh-poohed the idea consistent from the very start, and had only been let in along towards the last because we’d happened to be useful.  I don’t know that we was any more staggered, though, than the rest of ’em.  One sure sign that Old Hickory and Auntie was excited was the fact that they’d begun callin’ each other by their given names.

“Cornelia,” says he, “we’ve done it.  We have achieved adventure.”

“In spite of our gray hairs—­eh, Matthew?” says she.