“I’ll bet she could have had Mrs. Sittin’ Bull crowded into the back drop,” says I grinnin’.

And Auntie returns the grin.

You might know it would be Rupert who’d break the spell.

“I am wondering,” says be, “just how we are going to get all this treasure on board the yacht without the crew knowing all about it.”

“Why wonder?” says Old Hickory.  “Leave it to Torchy.”

“Ah, say!” I protests.

“No alibis,” insists Mr. Ellins, slappin’ me encouragin’ on the shoulder.  “Strategy is what we want from you, young man.  Plenty of it under that brilliant hair of yours.  We’ll give you three minutes.”

And of course, havin’ it batted up to me that way by the big boss, and with Vee gazin’ at me expectant, I had to produce.

“You’ll stand for any little tale I tell ’em, eh?” I asks.

“Absolutely,” says he.

So we gets to work with the dozen or more canvas sacks that Rupert has been foxy enough to bring along.  In the bottom we puts a shovelful of sand; then we dumps in the gold pieces and jewels promiscuous, with more sand on top, not fillin’ any sack more’n a third full.  That made ’em easy to handle, and when they was tossed into the launch there was no suspicious jingle or anything like that.

Half an hour later we was chuggin’ away from the little natural jackpot that we’d opened so successful, headed for the Agnes.  And, believe me, the old yacht looks mighty homey and invitin’, lyin’ there in the calm of the mornin’ with all her awnin’s spread and a trickle of blue smoke driftin’ up from the forward galley.

“Any orders?” asks Mr. Ellins, as we starts to run alongside.

“I got a few words to say to them early-bird sailors that’s house-cleanin’ the decks,” says I.  “I’m goin’ to ask you to stay in the boat, Mr. Ellins, and look worried.  The rest can go aboard.  Captain Killam might rout out the chef and get action on an early breakfast.”

“Ay, ay, Captain Torchy,” says Old Hickory.  “Here we are, with a smiling reception committee to greet us, as usual.”

There was five in the scrubbin’ squad, includin’ the second mate, a pie-faced Swede by the name of Nelse; and, while they seems mighty busy with pails and mops and brass polishers, I notice they all manages to drift over to our side of the yacht.  You couldn’t exactly accuse them of wearin’ grins, but they did look as though something amusin’ had occurred recent.  Which shows we was still doin’ duty as human jokes.  But that’s just what I makes my play on.

As soon as I can dash up the landin’ steps, I beckons the second mate to follow me aft.

“Call your bunch back here, too,” says I, “So there’ll be no bonehead plays made.”

Then, when I gets ’em together, I tips Nelse the knowin’ wink.

“You ain’t supposed to know a thing about what’s been goin’ on to-night, eh?” I asks.