“Why, one important thing you’ve forgotten,” said Charlie, as we sat over our pipes and glasses.  “Think of forgetting that.  Machetes—­and spades and pickaxes.  And I’d take a few sticks of dynamite along with you too.  I can let you have the lot, and, if you like, we’ll get them aboard to-night.”

“It’s a pity you have to give it away that it’s a treasure hunt,” said John,—­“but, then you can’t keep the crew from knowing.  And they’re a queer lot on the subject of treasure, have some of the rummest superstitions.  I hope you won’t have any trouble with them.”

“Had any experience in handling niggers?” asked Charlie.

“Not the least.”

“That makes me wish I were coming with you.  They are rum beggars.  Awful cowards, and just like a pack of children.  You know about sailing anyhow.  That’s a good thing.  You can captain your own boat, if need be.  That’s all to the good.  Particularly if you strike any dirty weather.  Though they’re cowards in a storm, they’ll take orders better than white men—­so long as they see that you know what you are about.  But let me give you one word of advice.  Be kind, of course, with them—­but keep your distance all the same.  And be careful about losing your temper.  You get more out of them by coaxing—­hard as it is, at times.  And, by the way, how would you like to take old ‘Sailor’ with you?”

“Sailor” was a great Labrador retriever, who, at that moment, turned up his big head, with a devoted sigh, from behind his master’s chair.

“Rather,” I said.  So “Sailor” was thereupon enrolled as a further addition to the crew.

“Of course, you needn’t expect to start on time,” said Charlie, with a laugh; “you’ll be lucky if the crew turns up an hour after time.  But that’s all in the game.  I know them—­lazy beggars.”

And the morning proved the truth of Charlie’s judgment.

“Old Tom,” the cook, was first on hand.  I took to him at once.  A simple, kindly old “darky” of “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” type, with faithfulness written all over him, and a certain sad wisdom in his old face.

“You’ll find Tom a great cook,” said Charlie, patting the old man on the shoulder.  “Many a trip we’ve taken together after duck, haven’t we, Tom?” said he kindly.

“That’s right, suh.  That’s right,” said the old man, his eyes twinkling with pleasure.

Then came the captain—­Captain Jabez Williams—­a younger man, with an intelligent, self-respecting manner, somewhat non-committal, business-like, evidently not particularly anxious as to whether he pleased or not, but looking competent, and civil enough, without being sympathetic.

Next came the engineer, a young hulking bronze giant, a splendid physical specimen, but rather heavy and sullen and not over-intelligent to look at.  A slow-witted young animal, not suggesting any great love of work, and rather loutish in his manners.  But, he knew his engine, said Charlie.  And that was the main thing.  The deck-hand proved to be a shackly, rather silly effeminate fellow, suggesting idiocy, but doubtless wiry and good enough for the purpose.