"Do your touching up some other time," orders Old Hickory. "Forward with you!"
"Yes, sir," says the party in the white jumper, and sneaks off.
"Listening!" says Rupert. "That's what he was doing."
"Who knows what they may be plotting," says Auntie, "or what sort of men they are? Sailors are apt to be such desperate characters. Why, we might all be murdered in our beds!"
"As likely as not," says Rupert gloomy.
And you know how catchin' an idea like that is. Up to then we hadn't taken much notice of the crew, no more'n you do of the help anywhere. Oh, we'd got so we could tell the deck stewards apart. One was a squint-eyed little Cockney that misplaced his aitches, but was always on hand when you wanted anything. Another was a tall, lanky Swede who was always "Yust coomin', sir." Then there was the bristly-haired Hungarian we called Goulash. They'd all seemed harmless enough before; but now we took to sizin' 'em up close. At dinner, when they was servin' things, I glanced around and found all four of our treasure-huntin' bunch followin' every move made. The usual table chatter had stopped, too.
"Why!" says Mrs. Mumford, springin' that silly laugh of hers, "it must be twenty minutes of."
Nobody says a word, for Ole and Goulash was servin' the fish course. You could see they was fussed, too. It was a queer sort of dinner-party. I could tell by the look of Old Hickory's eyes that something was coming from him. And sure enough, after coffee had been passed, he proceeds to tackle the situation square and solid, like he always does. He waves off the stewards and sends for Lennon, the yacht captain.
One of these chunky, square-jawed gents, Captain Lennon is, and about as sociable as a traffic cop on duty. His job is runnin' the yacht, and he sticks to it.
"Captain," says Mr. Ellins, "I want to know something about your crew. What are they like, now?"