"Here!" says Mr. Robert, shovin' over the desk 'phone. "Make him give you five per cent. at least. Here's his number."
So that's how it happens I come to be pilotin' this trio of treasure hunters—Auntie, Old Hickory, and Captain Rupert Killam—over to a South Brooklyn yacht basin and exhibitin' the Agnes. You'd never guess, either, from the way she's all painted up fresh, that she was the A. Y. C. flagship as far back as the early nineties.
"What a nice, wide boat!" says Auntie.
"Beam enough for a battleship," grumbles Rupert.
"I do hope," goes on Auntie, "that the staterooms are something more than cubbyholes."
"Let's take a look," says I, producin' the keys.
Ollie had mentioned specially the main saloon, but I wasn't lookin' for anything half so grand. Why, you could almost give a ball in it. Had a square piano and a fireplace, too.
"Huh!" says Old Hickory. "Quite a craft."
It was when we got to the two suites, one on each side of the companionway 'midships, that Auntie got real enthusiastic; for, besides the brass beds and full-sized bathtubs, they had clothes closets, easy chairs, and writin' desks.
"Excellent!" says she. "But what are those queer overhead pipes for, I wonder?"