I judge she wants something about half
way between a Cunarder and a ten-room flat; something wide and
substantial."
Mr. Robert grins. "They ought to be told about the _Agnes_," says he.
"What about her?" says I.
"Why," says he, "she's the marine antique that Ollie Wade inherited
from his uncle, the old Commodore. A fine boat in her day, too, but a
trifle obsolete now: steam, of course, and a scandalous coal eater.
Slow, too; ten knots is her top speed. But she's a roomy, comfortable
old tub, and Ollie would be glad to get her off his hands for a month
or two. Suppose I--"
"Would you mind, Mr. Robert," I breaks in, "if I discovered the _Agnes_
for 'em? I might boost my battin' average with Auntie; and maybe I
could work Ollie for a commission."
"Here!" says Mr. Robert, shovin' over the desk 'phone. "Make him give
you five per cent. at least. Here's his number."
So that's how it happens I come to be pilotin' this trio of treasure
hunters--Auntie, Old Hickory, and Captain Rupert Killam--over to a
South Brooklyn yacht basin and exhibitin' the _Agnes_. You'd never
guess, either, from the way she's all painted up fresh, that she was
the A. Y. C. flagship as far back as the early nineties.
"What a nice, wide boat!" says Auntie.
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