After all, there was something like sport in going down to Florida to look for treasure. The idea appealed to me more and more. I felt that I was in a race with Graham Stewart. As the Seaboard Florida Limited drew out of the Pennsylvania Terminal, and started on its run toward warmth, sunshine and Uncle Abner's treasure--_perhaps_ Uncle Abner's treasure--I settled myself and began a close inspection of my fellow-travellers. If Graham Stewart was on the train I wished to pick him out. And something told me he _was_ on the train. I made a mental inventory of my fellow-passengers. Was _he_ Graham--that slim youth in section twelve? He had pale hair and wore glasses, and looked at though he _might_ live in Brooklyn. But no; he was calm. Graham would be nervous. The keen-faced old man in section five was a likelier specimen; men with gray beards and smooth shaven upper lips are usually seekers for treasure, either buried or unburied. I leaned forward and tried to get a glimpse of the letter he was reading, but as I looked he tucked it away in an inside vest pocket. I would hunt him up later and ply him with talk of "Treasure Island," old coins and things of that sort. [Illustration: Sewell Collins' Idea of the Heroine.] By all odds the most interesting passenger was the girl in section seven--the girl with the big, blue eyes and long dark fringe for lashes. Every time I looked at her my interest in the buried treasure dwindled. I wished that she sat opposite instead of several sections off, for I have a rather useful set of plans that often work, when girls sit opposite in Pullman Cars. But alas! How seldom the pretty girls _do_ sit opposite! I always draw a fat man in a skull cap, or a wheezy old lady who uses peppermint! There always is a pretty girl, but she is invariably placed far from where I sit. On this particular occasion she was so pretty--so very pretty--that I grew morbid on the subject. What a dull, stupid thing a bachelor life can be! I have no doubt I stared at her, as I reflected thus, for presently she brought me to with a frosty little look. Pulling myself together hastily I went into the combination car to drink and smoke and think it over--no, not the girl, the buried treasure! The old man I had picked out for Graham Stewart came in not long after, and sitting near me, lit a very bad cigar. We drifted into conversation and, quite casually, I managed to speak of "Treasure Island." He said he had never heard of it--or Stevenson. I told him of the book; of the map in the front of it, that showed where the gold was hidden. Then I professed great interest in old coins.