Ellins might have been passin' the night on a bakery gratin' with a
sportin' extra for a blanket.
We was a long, long ways from either taxis or traffic cops, though. We
was on Nunca Secos Key, with the Gulf of Mexico murmurin' gentle behind
us, and out in front a big red sun was blazin' through the black pines
that edge the west coast of Florida. Five of us, includin' Vee and
Captain Rupert Killam and me; and each in our own peculiar way was
registerin' the Pollyanna-Mrs. Wiggs stuff.
Why not? For one thing, it's about as handsome a December mornin' as
you could dream of--the air soft and mild, with a clean, salty smell to
it that sort of gives you a romantic hunch every sniff you pump in.
But the big reason for this early-mornin' joyfest of ours-- Well,
there's the pirate treasure, almost enough to load a pushcart with.
You know how you feel when you pluck a stray quarter from the L stairs,
or maybe retrieve a dollar bill that's been playin' hide-and-seek in
the gutter? Multiply that by the thrill you'd get if you'd had your
salary raised and been offered par for a block of industrials that had
been wished on you at ten a share, all in the same day. Then you'll
have a vague idea of how chirky we was at 5:30 A.M. as we stood around
in front of that mound we'd torn open, gawpin' first at the heap of
loot and then at each other.
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