“Raspberries!” flashed back redhead. “Come on, who’s the other fella? I’ll bet six bits his middle name is Mussolini!”
“The other fella, as you so elegantly put it, is Chief Osceola, Grand Sachem of the Seminole Nation and a senior at Carlisle. And incidentally, neither Chief Osceola nor myself permit grubby little schoolboys to get fresh when we’re around.” Bill shot out a long arm and gathered in the urchin. “Will you scalp him, Osceola?” he inquired solemnly. “Or shall I lay him across my knee and give him what he’s asking for? Stop wriggling, you young ruffian, or you’ll get a double dose!”
“Please, Mister Bolton—I didn’t mean to be fresh—really, I didn’t!” The youngster was all contrition now.
“Then snap out of it, and answer our questions!”
“I will, sir, I will—” he broke off and stared up at Bill, awe and amazement written on his round face. “Say!” he fairly shouted. “You must be the two guys I read about in the newspaper. The ones that busted up that gang of gunmen down in Florida a couple of weeks ago!”
“What of it?” Bill released him. “That doesn’t give you license to show off your bad manners, does it?”
“Gee whiz! And to think I was trying to get fresh with a couple of real men like you! I’m darned sorry—and I apologize, Mr. Bolton, and to you, too, Chief Osceola.”
“That’s all right, kid. No harm done,” laughed Osceola. “Quit stalling and tell us something about yourself.”
“Well, I’m Charlie Evans,” returned the boy, still awestruck at his discovery of their identity. “My father is C. B. Evans. We live in Boston, and this is our yacht, the Merrymaid.”
Bill walked over to the divan and sat down, while Osceola leaned against the arm of a chair. “Come over here, Charlie,” he invited, “and tell me how it happens that we find you alone on this yacht. Chief Osceola and I are on our way from Miami to New York. We sighted the Merrymaid adrift and evidently abandoned out here, so we naturally landed to investigate.”