"Because we blew out a cylinder gasket," says he. "The Petrel isn't a new boat, by any means, and hardly in first-class shape. But we managed to patch her up, you see."
"Humph!" says Auntie.
Honest, I was almost sorry for that naval gent before she got through with him, for she sure did state her opinion, free and forcible, of his holdin' us up this way. He stands and takes it, too, until she's all through.
"Sorry you feel that way about it," says he, "but I shall be obliged to make a thorough search of this boat, nevertheless. Also I shall require an explanation as to why you disregarded my wireless orders. Unless you can satisfy me that—"
It's about there this cheery hail comes from J. Dudley Simms, who is just appearin' from his stateroom, all dolled up complete in white flannels.
"By Jove!" he sings out. "If it isn't Folly. How are you, old man?"
The lieutenant commander swings around with a pleased look.
"Why—er—that you, Dud, old chap? Say, what are you these days? Blockade runner, smuggler, or what?"
"You're warm, Folly, you're warm!" says Dudley. "Hunting for buried treasure, that's our game—pirate gold—all that sort of thing."
And say, in less than two shakes he's given the whole snap away, in spite of Old Hickory scowlin' and Auntie glarin' like she meant to murder him with her grapefruit spoon.