Just what his final fluke was I’m only givin’ a guess at, but I judge that when Mr. Ellins called on him to point out the pirate hoard, now we were right on the ground, Rupert begun stallin’ him off.  Anyway, I saw ’em havin’ a little private session ’way up in the bow soon after we got the hook down.  By the set of Old Hickory’s jaw I knew he was puttin’ something straight up to Rupert.  And the Cap, he points first one way, then the other, endin’ by diggin’ up a chart and gazin’ at it vague.

“Huh!” grunts Old Hickory.

I could hear that clear back by the bridge, where Vee and I were leanin’ over the rail watchin’ for flyin’-fish.  Also we are within ear-stretchin’ distance when he makes his report to Auntie.

“Somewhere around here—­he thinks,” says Mr. Ellins.  “Says he needs a day or so to get his bearings.  Meanwhile he wants us to go fishing.”

“Fish!” sniffs Auntie.  “I shall certainly do nothing of the sort.  I want to tell you right here, too, that I am not going to humor that absurd person any more.”

“Isn’t he just as wise as he was when you lured him away from the hotel where I’d put him?” asks Old Hickory sarcastic.

“I supposed you had a little sense then yourself, Matthew Ellins,” Auntie raps back at him.

“You flatter me,” says Old Hickory, bowin’ stiff and marchin’ off huffy.

After which they both registers glum, injured looks.  A close-up of either of ’em would have soured a can of condensed milk, especially whenever Captain Rupert Killam took a chance on showin’ himself.  And Rupert, he was wise to the situation.  He couldn’t help being.  He takes it hard, too.  All his chesty, important airs are gone.  He skulks around like a stray pup that’s dodgin’ the dog-catcher.

You see, when he’d worked off that buried treasure bunk in New York it had listened sort of convincin’.  He’d got away with it, there being nobody qualified to drop the flag on him.  But down here on the west coast of Florida, right where he’d located the scene, it was his cue to ditch the prospectus gag and produce something real.  And he couldn’t.  That is, he hadn’t up to date.  Old Hickory ain’t the one to put up with any pussy-footin’.  Nor Auntie, either.  When they ain’t satisfied with things they have a habit of lettin’ folks know just how they feel.

Hence this area of low pressure that seems to center around the Agnes.  Old Hickory is off in one end of the boat, puffin’ at his cigar savage; Auntie’s at the other, glarin’ into a book she’s pretendin’ to read; Mrs. Mumford is crochetin’ silent; Professor Leonidas Barr is riggin’ up some kind of a scientific dip net; J. Dudley Simms is down in the main saloon playin’ solitaire; and Rupert sticks to the upper deck, where he’s out of the way.

Vee and me?  Oh, we got hold of a map, and was tryin’ to locate just where we were.

“See, that must be Sanibel Island—­the long green streak off there,” says she, tracin’ it out with a pink forefinger.  “And that is Pine Island Sound, with the Caloos—­Caloosa—­”