Mr. Robert grins.  “They ought to be told about the Agnes,” says he.

“What about her?” says I.

“Why,” says he, “she’s the marine antique that Ollie Wade inherited from his uncle, the old Commodore.  A fine boat in her day, too, but a trifle obsolete now:  steam, of course, and a scandalous coal eater.  Slow, too; ten knots is her top speed.  But she’s a roomy, comfortable old tub, and Ollie would be glad to get her off his hands for a month or two.  Suppose I—­”

“Would you mind, Mr. Robert,” I breaks in, “if I discovered the Agnes for ’em?  I might boost my battin’ average with Auntie; and maybe I could work Ollie for a commission.”

“Here!” says Mr. Robert, shovin’ over the desk ’phone.  “Make him give you five per cent. at least.  Here’s his number.”

So that’s how it happens I come to be pilotin’ this trio of treasure hunters—­Auntie, Old Hickory, and Captain Rupert Killam—­over to a South Brooklyn yacht basin and exhibitin’ the Agnes.  You’d never guess, either, from the way she’s all painted up fresh, that she was the A. Y. C. flagship as far back as the early nineties.

“What a nice, wide boat!” says Auntie.

“Beam enough for a battleship,” grumbles Rupert.

“I do hope,” goes on Auntie, “that the staterooms are something more than cubbyholes.”

“Let’s take a look,” says I, producin’ the keys.

Ollie had mentioned specially the main saloon, but I wasn’t lookin’ for anything half so grand.  Why, you could almost give a ball in it.  Had a square piano and a fireplace, too.

“Huh!” says Old Hickory.  “Quite a craft.”

It was when we got to the two suites, one on each side of the companionway ’midships, that Auntie got real enthusiastic; for, besides the brass beds and full-sized bathtubs, they had clothes closets, easy chairs, and writin’ desks.

“Excellent!” says she.  “But what are those queer overhead pipes for, I wonder?”

“Must be for the cold-air system Mr. Wade was tellin’ me about,” says I.

“Oh, yes,” adds Old Hickory.  “I remember now.  This is the boat Commodore Wade went up the Orinoco in, and he had her fitted for tropical cruising.  How many staterooms in all, did you say, son?”

“Twelve, outside of the crew’s quarters,” says I.

“Regular floating hotel,” says Old Hickory.  “We shall not be crowded for room, Mrs. Hemmingway.”

“Then why not ask some of our friends to go with us?” suggests Auntie.  “There are one or two I should like to take along for companionship.  And it will not look so much like an expedition if we make up a cruising party.”

“Very well,” says Old Hickory; “that’s not a bad idea.  We’ll decide on this boat, then?”

Captain Killam tried to point out that the Agnes was a bigger craft than they needed, and that she didn’t look as if she had much speed.  But Auntie had already planned how she could camp comfortable in one of them suites, and Old Hickory had discovered that the yacht sported a wireless outfit.  Hanged if each one of ’em didn’t talk like they’d found the Agnes all by themselves, or had her built to order!  I got about as much credit as if I hadn’t been along at all.