"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. "Against showing their grins above decks," says the Captain. "Of course, I can't stop their having their jokes in their own quarters." "Jokes?" echoes Mr. Ellins. "Jokes!" gasps Auntie. Captain Lennon hunches his shoulders again. "I thought you wouldn't like it, sir," says he; "but that's the way they look at it. I've told them it was none of their business what you folks did; that you could afford to hunt for buried treasure, or buried beans, or buried anything else, if you wanted to. And if you'll report one of them even winking disrespectful, or showing the trace of a grin, I'll set him and his ditty bag ashore so quick--" "Thank you, Captain," breaks in Mr. Ellins, kind of choky; "that--that will be all." You should have seen the different expressions around that table after the Captain has gone. I don't know that I ever saw Old Hickory actually look sheepish before. As for Auntie, she's almost ready to blow a fuse. "Well," says she explosive. "I like that! Jokes, are we?" "So it appears," says Mr. Ellins. "At any 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.