And you know how catchin’ an idea like that is.  Up to then we hadn’t taken much notice of the crew, no more’n you do of the help anywhere.  Oh, we’d got so we could tell the deck stewards apart.  One was a squint-eyed little Cockney that misplaced his aitches, but was always on hand when you wanted anything.  Another was a tall, lanky Swede who was always “Yust coomin’, sir.”  Then there was the bristly-haired Hungarian we called Goulash.  They’d all seemed harmless enough before; but now we took to sizin’ ’em up close.  At dinner, when they was servin’ things, I glanced around and found all four of our treasure-huntin’ bunch followin’ every move made.  The usual table chatter had stopped, too.

“Why!” says Mrs. Mumford, springin’ that silly laugh of hers, “it must be twenty minutes of.”

Nobody says a word, for Ole and Goulash was servin’ the fish course.  You could see they was fussed, too.  It was a queer sort of dinner-party.  I could tell by the look of Old Hickory’s eyes that something was coming from him.  And sure enough, after coffee had been passed, he proceeds to tackle the situation square and solid, like he always does.  He waves off the stewards and sends for Lennon, the yacht captain.

One of these chunky, square-jawed gents, Captain Lennon is, and about as sociable as a traffic cop on duty.  His job is runnin’ the yacht, and he sticks to it.

“Captain,” says Mr. Ellins, “I want to know something about your crew.  What are they like, now?”

The Cap looks sort of puzzled.

“Why, they’re all right, I guess,” says he.

“Please don’t guess,” cuts in Auntie.  “Are they all good, responsible, steady-going trust-worthy men, on whose character you can absolutely depend?”

“I couldn’t say, madam,” says he.  “We don’t get ’em from divinity schools.”

“Of course not,” chimes in Old Hickory.  “What we really want to know is this:  Do your men suspect what we are here for?”

The Captain nods.

“How much do they know—­er—­about the buried treasure, for instance?” demands Old Hickory.

Captain Lennon shrugs his shoulders.

“About twice as much as is so, I suppose,” says he.  “They’re great gossips, sailors—­worse than so many old women.”

“Huh!” grunts Mr. Ellins.  “And about how long have they known all this?”

“I overheard some of them talking about it before we sailed,” says the Captain.  “There were those new shovels and picks, you know; perhaps those set them guessing.  Anyway, they were passing the word from the first.”

Mr. Ellins shakes his head and glances at Killam.  Auntie presses her lips tight and stares from one to the other.

“This is serious,” says Old Hickory.  “Why didn’t you tell us of this before?”

“Why,” says Captain Lennon, “I didn’t think you’d like it, sir.  And I’ve warned the men.”

“Warned them against what?” asks Old Hickory.