You know how it is.
There was one place 'way up in the bow, between the big anchors, and
another on the little boat deck, right back of the bridge. But, just
as we'd get nicely settled, we'd hear a creak-creak, and here would
come Rupert nosing around.
"Lookin' for anybody special?" I'd ask him.
"Why--er--no," says Rupert.
"Then you'll find 'em in the main saloon," says I, "two flights down.
Mind your step."
But you couldn't discourage Captain Killam that way. Next time it
would be the same old story.
"Of all the gutta-percha ears!" says I to Vee. "He must think we're
plottin' something deep."
"Let's pretend we are," says Vee.
"Or give him a steer that'll keep him busy, eh?" says I.
So you see it started innocent enough. I worked out the details durin'
the night, and next mornin' my first move is to make the plant. First
I hunts up Old Hickory's particular friend, J. Dudley Simms, him with
the starey eyes and the twisted smile. For some reason or other,
Rupert hadn't bothered him much. Too simple in the face, I expect.
But Dudley ain't half so simple as he looks or listens. In his own
particular way he seems to be enjoyin' this yachtin' trip huge, just
loafin' around elegant in his white flannels, smokin' cigarettes
continual, soppin' up brandy-and-soda at reg'lar intervals, and
entertainin' Mr.
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