"
"Who knows what they may be plotting," says Auntie, "or what sort of
men they are? Sailors are apt to be such desperate characters. Why,
we might all be murdered in our beds!"
"As likely as not," says Rupert gloomy.
And you know how catchin' an idea like that is. Up to then we hadn't
taken much notice of the crew, no more'n you do of the help anywhere.
Oh, we'd got so we could tell the deck stewards apart. One was a
squint-eyed little Cockney that misplaced his aitches, but was always
on hand when you wanted anything. Another was a tall, lanky Swede who
was always "Yust coomin', sir." Then there was the bristly-haired
Hungarian we called Goulash. They'd all seemed harmless enough before;
but now we took to sizin' 'em up close. At dinner, when they was
servin' things, I glanced around and found all four of our
treasure-huntin' bunch followin' every move made. The usual table
chatter had stopped, too.
"Why!" says Mrs. Mumford, springin' that silly laugh of hers, "it must
be twenty minutes of."
Nobody says a word, for Ole and Goulash was servin' the fish course.
You could see they was fussed, too. It was a queer sort of
dinner-party. I could tell by the look of Old Hickory's eyes that
something was coming from him.
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