She's a picturesque old girl, Auntie, in a lavender
and white kimono and a boudoir cap to match; and Rupert, in blue
trousers and a pajama top, hardly looks like a triple-plated hero.
"Nabbed!" gasps Rupert, starin' over the rail, at a gray gunboat that's
just roundin' in towards us. It's the _Petrel_, sure enough.
"The idea!" says Auntie. "They were shooting at us, too, weren't they?
Of all things!"
Then up pads Old Hickory in a low-necked silk dressin'-gown, with his
gray hair all rumpled and a heavy crop of white stubble on his solid
set jaws.
"Huh!" says he, takin' a glance at the _Petrel_.
That's about all there is to be said, too. For it was odd how little
any of us felt like bein' chatty. We just stood around quiet and
watched the businesslike motions on the _Petrel_ as she stops about a
block off and proceeds to drop a boat into the water.
Projectin' prominent from one of her steel bay windows is a
wicked-lookin' gun about the size of a young water main, and behind it
a lot of jackies squintin' at us earnest. And you know how still it
seems on a boat when the engines quit. I almost jumps when someone
whispers in my ear. It's Vee.
"Now I hope Auntie's satisfied," says she.
"There's no tellin' about her," says I.
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