"Then you'll find 'em in the main saloon," says I, "two flights down. Mind your step."
But you couldn't discourage Captain Killam that way. Next time it would be the same old story.
"Of all the gutta-percha ears!" says I to Vee. "He must think we're plottin' something deep."
"Let's pretend we are," says Vee.
"Or give him a steer that'll keep him busy, eh?" says I.
So you see it started innocent enough. I worked out the details durin' the night, and next mornin' my first move is to make the plant. First I hunts up Old Hickory's particular friend, J. Dudley Simms, him with the starey eyes and the twisted smile. For some reason or other, Rupert hadn't bothered him much. Too simple in the face, I expect.
But Dudley ain't half so simple as he looks or listens. In his own particular way he seems to be enjoyin' this yachtin' trip huge, just loafin' around elegant in his white flannels, smokin' cigarettes continual, soppin' up brandy-and-soda at reg'lar intervals, and entertainin' Mr. Ellins with his batty remarks.
The only thing that appears to bother Dudley at all about bein' cut off this way from the world in general is the lack of a stock ticker aboard. Seems he'd loaded up with a certain war baby before sailing and while the deal wouldn't either make or break him, he had a sportin' interest in which way the market was waverin'.
"Well, how do you guess Consolidated Munitions closed yesterday?" I asks.
Dudley shakes his head mournful.