He
skulks around like a stray pup that's dodgin' the dog-catcher.
You see, when he'd worked off that buried treasure bunk in New York it
had listened sort of convincin'. He'd got away with it, there being
nobody qualified to drop the flag on him. But down here on the west
coast of Florida, right where he'd located the scene, it was his cue to
ditch the prospectus gag and produce something real. And he couldn't.
That is, he hadn't up to date. Old Hickory ain't the one to put up
with any pussy-footin'. Nor Auntie, either. When they ain't satisfied
with things they have a habit of lettin' folks know just how they feel.
Hence this area of low pressure that seems to center around the
_Agnes_. Old Hickory is off in one end of the boat, puffin' at his
cigar savage; Auntie's at the other, glarin' into a book she's
pretendin' to read; Mrs. Mumford is crochetin' silent; Professor
Leonidas Barr is riggin' up some kind of a scientific dip net; J.
Dudley Simms is down in the main saloon playin' solitaire; and Rupert
sticks to the upper deck, where he's out of the way.
Vee and me? Oh, we got hold of a map, and was tryin' to locate just
where we were.
"See, that must be Sanibel Island--the long green streak off there,"
says she, tracin' it out with a pink forefinger.
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