“Think of that!” says Mrs. Mumford.  “He had been a pirate himself, hadn’t he?”

“Well, hardly,” says Rupert.  “A tinsmith, I think he told me.  He was a tough old citizen, though—­an atheist or something like that.  Very profane.  Used chewing tobacco.”

Mrs. Mumford shudders.  “And you were alone with such a desperado, on a desert island!” she gasps, rollin’ her eyes.

“Oh, I can generally look out for myself,” says Rupert, tappin’ his hip pocket.

He was fairly beamin’, Rupert was, for Mrs. Mumford was not only lettin’ him write his own ticket, but was biddin’ his stock above par.  And all the rest of the day he swells around chesty, starin’ out at the ocean as important as if he owned it all.

“At last,” says I, “we know the romance of Rupert.”

“I hope it doesn’t keep me awake nights,” says Vee.

“Look at the bold, bad ex-school teacher,” says I.  “Wonder what blood-curdlin’ mind plays he’s indulgin’ in now?  There!  He’s unlimberin’ the glasses again.”

It must have been about four o’clock, for I remember hearin’ eight bells strike and remarkin’ to Vee what a silly way that was to keep track of time.  We was watchin’ Rupert go through his Columbus-discoverin’-Staten-Island motions, and I was workin’ up some josh to hand him, when he comes rushin’ back to the wireless room.  No, we didn’t stretch our ears intentional, and if we sidled up under the cabin window it must have been because there was a couple of deck chairs spread out convenient.

“Isn’t that some kind of warship off there?” Captain Killam is demandin’ of Meyers.

“Wait,” says the operator, fittin’ on his tin ear.  “He’s just calling.”  Then, after listenin’ a while, he announces:  “He wants to know who we are.”

“Don’t answer,” orders Killam.

“Oh, all right,” says Meyers, and goes on listenin’.  Pretty soon, though, he gives out another bulletin.

“It’s the United States gunboat Petrel, and he’s demanding who and what.  Real snappy this time.  Guess I’d better flash it to him, eh?”

“No, no!” says Rupert.  “It’s no business of his.  This is a private yacht bound for a home port.  Let him whistle.”

It struck me at the time as a nutty thing to do, but of course I’m no judge.  I had a hunch that Rupert was registerin’ importance and showin’ how he was boss of the expedition—­something he hadn’t a chance to get over before.  It ain’t long, though, before Meyers begins talkin’ like he was uneasy.

“He wants to know,” says he, “if our wireless is out of commission, and if it is why we don’t run up a signal.”

“Bah!” says Rupert.  “These naval officers are too nosey.  It’ll do this one good if we take no notice of him.”

“All the same,” insists Meyers, “I think Mr. Ellins and the Captain ought to know what’s going on.”

“Oh, very well,” says Rupert.  “I’ll call them down and we’ll talk it over.”