im."

"All the same," insists Meyers, "I think Mr. Ellins and the Captain
ought to know what's going on."

"Oh, very well," says Rupert. "I'll call them down and we'll talk it
over."

Course, we had to clear out then, for it's a secret confab of the whole
executive committee that develops, includin' Auntie. But we got a full
report later. It seems Rupert was skittish about havin' naval officers
snoopin' around the yacht. For one thing, he don't want 'em to find
out that this is a treasure-huntin' cruise, on account of the
government's bein' apt to hog part of the swag. Then, there's all them
guns stowed away below. He explains how this _Petrel_ is a slow old
tub that he don't believe could overhaul the _Agnes_ before dark. So
why not make a run for it?

The reg'lar yacht captain was dead against anything like that. He
wouldn't advise monkeyin' with the United States Navy, if they was
askin' him. Better chuck the guns overboard. As for Old Hickory, he
was sort of on the fence.

Who do you guess it was, though, that stood out for makin' the nervy
getaway? Auntie. Uh-huh! All this panicky talk by Meyers and the
yacht captain only warmed up her sportin' blood. What right, she
wanted to know, had a snippy little gunboat to hold up a private party
of perfectly good New Yorkers and ask 'em where they was goin'? Humph!
What was the government, anyway? Just a lot of cheap officeholders who
spent their time bothering our best people about customs duties and
income taxes. For her part, she didn't care a snap about the navy. If
the _Agnes_ could get away, why not breeze ahead?

I expect that proposition must have appealed to Old Hickory, for he
swung to her side at the last, and that's the way it was settled. They
decided to make no bones about what was up. Mr. Ellins calls us
together and makes a little speech, sayin' if anybody don't like the
prospect he's sorry, but it can't be helped.

Then the crew gets busy. Black smoke begins pourin' out of the stack
and the engines are tuned up to top speed. All the awnin's are taken
in and every flag pulled down. The _Agnes_ proceeds to hump herself,
too.

"Twelve knots," reports Old Hickory, inspectin' the patent log. "The
Captain thinks he can get fourteen out of her. The _Petrel's_ best is
sixteen."

"At least, we have a good start," says Auntie, gazin' off where a thin
smudge shows on the sky line. "And before they can get near enough to
shoot the