"That's so," says Vee. "But so do all of us. Only we don't know just where the island is." "Suppose Dudley had buffaloed Old Hickory into showin' him the map?" "Well?" demands Vee. "Wouldn't it be easy enough," I goes on, "if he had pals ashore, to pass on the description, have them start out in a fast yacht from New Orleans or Key West, and beat us to it?" "But I don't see," says Vee, "how he could get word to them." "Look!" says I, pointin' to the wireless gridiron over our heads. "Where do you guess he is now?" Vee shakes her head. "Gettin' in his fine work with Meyers," says I. "He's been at it ever since breakfast." "Think of that!" says Vee. "And you believe he means to--" "S-s-s-sh!" says I. "Someone might be rubberin'." Does it work? Say, when I gets up to scout around, Rupert has disappeared, and for the first time since we've been aboard be leaves us alone for the rest of the forenoon. We didn't hate that exactly. Vee reads some out of a book, draws sketches of me, and we has long talks about--well, about a lot of things. Anyway, I'm strong for this yacht-cruisin' stuff when there's no Rupert interference. It's so sort of chummy. And with a girl like Vee, to share it with--well, I don't care how long it lasts, that's all. And the next thing we knows there goes the luncheon gong. As we climbs down to the main deck where we can get a view forward, Vee gives me a nudge and snickers. J. Dudley Simms is still roostin' alongside the wireless cabin; and just beyond, crouched behind a stanchion with one ear juttin' out, is Captain Killam. "Fine!" says I. "Rupert's got a steady job, eh?" About then the other folks commence mobilizin' for a drive on the dinin'-room, and someone calls Dudley to come along. "Just a moment," says he, scribblin' on a pad. "There!" and he hands a message over to Meyers. "Ha, ha!" says a hoarse voice behind him. Then things happened quick. Rupert makes a sudden pounce. He grabs Dudley, pinnin' his arms to his sides, and starts weavin' a rope around him. "Oh, I say!" says Dudley. "What the deuce?" "Traitor!" hisses Rupert dramatic. "You will, will you?" J. Dudley may look like a Percy boy, too, but he ain't one to stand bein' wrapped up like a parcels-post package, or for the hissin' act--not when he's in the dark as to what it's all about. He just naturally cuts loose with the rough stuff himself. A skillful squirm or two, and he gets his elbows loose. Then, when he gets a close-up of who's tryin' to snare him, he pushes a snappy left in on Rupert's nose. "Go away, fellow!" remarks Dudley. "Snake in the grass!" says Rupert. Then they clinched and begun rollin' over on the deck, clawin' each other. Course, Mrs. Mumford lets out a few frantic squeals and slumps in a faint. Professor Leonidas Barr starts wringin' his hands and groaning "Oh, dear! Oh, dear, dear!" Auntie, she just stands there gaspin' and tryin' to unlimber her lorgnette.