"Is it a new drink, or what?" says I.
"No, no," says he. "Gasparilla, the great pirate, once the terror of the Spanish Main. Surely you must have read about him."
"Nope," says I. "That Nick Carter junk never got to me very strong."
The Cap. stares at me sort of surprised and pained.
"But this isn't a dime-novel story I am telling," he protests. "José Caspar was a real person—just as real as George Washington or John Paul Jones. He was a genuine pirate, too, and the fact that he had his headquarters on the west coast of Florida is well established. It's history. And it is also true that he buried much of his stolen treasure—gold and jewelry and precious stones—on some one of those thousands of sandy keys which line the Gulf coast from Anclote Light to White Water Bay. For nearly two hundred years men have hunted for that treasure. Why even the United States Government once sent out an expedition to find it. But I, Rupert Killam, have at last discovered the true hiding place of that secret hoard."
Can you beat that for a batty conversation to be handed across the table, right on Broadway at high noon? But say, take it from me, this Rupert party is some convincin' spieler. With that low, smooth voice of his, and them buttermilk blue eyes fixed steady and earnest on mine, I was all but under the spell for a minute or so there. Then I shakes myself and gets back to normal.
"Say," says I, "you ain't lookin' to put any such fancy tale as that over on Mr. Robert, are you?"
"I hope I can interest him in the enterprise," says Killam.
"Well, take my advice and don't waste your time," says I. "He's a good deal of a sport and all that, but I don't think he'd fall for anything so musty as this old doubloon and pieces-of-eight dope."
"I have proofs," says Rupert, "absolute proofs."