rate, we seem to be in no
danger from a mutinous crew. Our little enterprise merely amuses them."

"Pooh!" says Auntie. "Ignorant sailors! What do they know about--"

But just then there booms in through the portholes this hearty hail
from outside:

"Ahoy the _Agnes_! Who's aboard there? Wha-a-a-at! Mr. Ellins, of
New York. Well, well! Hey, you! Fend off there. I'm coming in."

"Megrue!" says Old Hickory. "If it isn't I'll--"

It was, all right: Bernard J. Megrue, one of our biggest Western
customers, president of a couple of railroads, and director in a lot of
companies that's more or less close to the Corrugated Trust. He's a
husk, Barney Megrue is--big and breezy, with crisp iron-gray hair,
lively black eyes, and all the gentle ways of a section boss.

He's got up in a complete khaki rig, includin' shirt and hat to match,
and below the eyebrows he has a complexion like a mahogany sideboard.
It don't take him long to make himself right to home among us.

"Well, well!" says he, workin' a forced draught on one of Old Hickory's
choice cassadoras. "Who'd ever think of running across you down here?
After tarpon, eh? That's me, too. Hung up my third fish for the
season only yesterday; a beauty, too--hundred and sixty-three
pounds--and it took me just two hours and forty-five minutes to make
the kill. But say, Ellins, this is no stand for real strikes. Now,
you move up to Boca Grande to-morrow and I'll show you fishing that's
something like."

"Thanks, Barney," says Old Hickory, "but I'm no whaler. In fact, I'm
no fisherman at all."

"Oh, I see," says Megrue. "Just cruising, eh? Well, that's all right
if you like it. People come to Florida for all sorts of things. Which
reminds me of something rich. Heard it from my boatman. He tells me
there's a party of New York folks down here hunting for pirate gold.
Haw, haw! How about that, eh?"

Embarrassin' pause. Very. Nobody dared look at anybody else. At
least, I didn't. I was waverin' between a gasp and a snicker, and was
nearly chokin' over it, when Old Hickory clears his throat raspy and
menacin'.

"Well, what about it?" he asks snappy.

"Why," says Megrue, "it seems too good to be true, that's all. As I
told the boys up at the hotel, if there are any real treasure-hunting
bugs around, I want to get a good look at 'em--especially if they're
from New York. That's one on you, eh, Ellins? Proves you have a few
folks in the big town wh