“Now, in the name of Mars,” demands Old Hickory, “what the sulphuretted syntax is this all about?  Come, Captain Killam, you started this; tell us why.”

“He—­he’s a traitor, that’s why!” pants Rupert, pointin’ at Dudley.

“Bah!” says Old Hickory.  “Whaddye mean, traitor?”

“He’s plotting to send confederates to Nunca Secos Key before we get there,” says Rupert.  “Plotting to steal our buried treasure.  See!  He was just sending a message to some of his gang.”

“Eh!” snorts Mr. Ellins.  “A message?”

Meyers fishes it out of his pocket and hands it over.

“Huh!” says Old Hickory, puzzlin’ it out. “’Advise how infant is doing.  Send care yacht Agnes, off Charleston.’  Dudley, what infant is this?”

Dudley grins sheepish.  “Consolidated Munitions,” says he.

“Oh!” says Old Hickory.  “A war infant, eh?  I see.”  Then he whirls on Rupert.  “And by what idiotic inference, Killam, did you conjure up this rubbish about a plot?”

Rupert, he turns and stares indignant at me.  Old Hickory follows the accusin’ look, and next thing I know I’m in the spot light for fair.

“Hah!” observes Mr. Ellins.  “You, eh?”

Now, there’s only one rule I got for dealin’ with the big boss.  I stick to facts and make ’em snappy.

“Uh-huh,” says I.  “Me.”

“You thought it humorous, I presume,” he goes on, “to tell this silly yarn to Captain Killam?”

“But he didn’t,” speaks up Vee.  “He was telling it to me; that is, we were telling it to each other—­making it up as we went along.  So there!”

“Oh!” says Mr. Ellins.  “And the Captain happened to overhear, did he?”

“Happened!” says I.  “Like you happen to climb a fire-escape.  That’s Rupert’s long suit—­overhearin’ things.  He’s been favorin’ us a lot lately.”

“What about that, Killam?” asks Mr. Ellins.

“Why—­er—­ah—­” stutters Rupert, “perhaps I have.  But when you see two persons getting off by themselves and talking so much together, you naturally—­”

“Bah!” explodes Old Hickory.  “Can’t you remember back to nineteen, Killam?” Then he turns to me.  “So you concocted this plot story for Captain Killam’s benefit, did you?”

I nods.

“I thought it would keep him off our heels for a while,” says I.  “I fed him an earful, I guess.”

“Young man,” says Mr. Ellins, shakin’ a forefinger at me, but lettin’ his left eyelid drop knowin’, “the next time I find that imagination of yours running loose I—­I’ll authorize Captain Killam to catch it and put it in irons.  Now let’s have luncheon.”

CHAPTER XIII

WHEN THE NAVY HORNED IN

One thing about this yacht-cruisin’ act is how close a line you get on the people you’re shut up with.  Why, this cross-mated bunch of ours hadn’t been out in the Agnes more’n three days before I could have told you the life hist’ry of ’most everyone in the party.