The Petrel people were takin’ their time about things.  After they got the boat in they had to let down some side stairs, and then the sailors waited with their oars ready until an officer in a fresh laundered white uniform gets in and gives the signal to shove off.  Our Captain has the companionway stairs rigged, too, and there ain’t a word passed until the naval gent comes aboard.  He’s rather a youngish party, with a round, good-natured face, and he seems kind of amused as he sizes up our bunch in their early mornin’ costumes.

“Pardon me,” says he, touchin’ his cap, “but who is in charge of this yacht?”

“I suppose I am,” says Old Hickory.

“Not a bit more than I,” puts in Auntie.  “And I want to tell you right now, young man, that I consider your action in shooting off those guns at us was—­”

“I presume you recognize the United States Navy, madam?” breaks in the officer.

“Not necessarily,” snaps Auntie.  “I don’t in the least see why we should, I’m sure.”

“Certainly we do,” corrects Old Hickory.  “But, as Mrs. Hemmingway observes, we dislike to be shot at.”

“Even though you couldn’t hit us,” adds Auntie.

The officer grins.

“Oh, our gunners aren’t as bad as that,” says he.  “We were merely shooting across your bows, you know.  I am Lieutenant Commander Faulhaber, and it is part of my duty to overhaul and inspect any suspicious acting craft.”

“Why didn’t you do it last night, then?” demands Auntie.

“Because we blew out a cylinder gasket,” says he.  “The Petrel isn’t a new boat, by any means, and hardly in first-class shape.  But we managed to patch her up, you see.”

“Humph!” says Auntie.

Honest, I was almost sorry for that naval gent before she got through with him, for she sure did state her opinion, free and forcible, of his holdin’ us up this way.  He stands and takes it, too, until she’s all through.

“Sorry you feel that way about it,” says he, “but I shall be obliged to make a thorough search of this boat, nevertheless.  Also I shall require an explanation as to why you disregarded my wireless orders.  Unless you can satisfy me that—­”

It’s about there this cheery hail comes from J. Dudley Simms, who is just appearin’ from his stateroom, all dolled up complete in white flannels.

“By Jove!” he sings out.  “If it isn’t Folly.  How are you, old man?”

The lieutenant commander swings around with a pleased look.

“Why—­er—­that you, Dud, old chap?  Say, what are you these days?  Blockade runner, smuggler, or what?”

“You’re warm, Folly, you’re warm!” says Dudley.  “Hunting for buried treasure, that’s our game—­pirate gold—­all that sort of thing.”

And say, in less than two shakes he’s given the whole snap away, in spite of Old Hickory scowlin’ and Auntie glarin’ like she meant to murder him with her grapefruit spoon.