"Well, well!" says he, workin' a forced draught on one of Old Hickory's choice cassadoras. "Who'd ever think of running across you down here? After tarpon, eh? That's me, too. Hung up my third fish for the season only yesterday; a beauty, too—hundred and sixty-three pounds—and it took me just two hours and forty-five minutes to make the kill. But say, Ellins, this is no stand for real strikes. Now, you move up to Boca Grande to-morrow and I'll show you fishing that's something like."
"Thanks, Barney," says Old Hickory, "but I'm no whaler. In fact, I'm no fisherman at all."
"Oh, I see," says Megrue. "Just cruising, eh? Well, that's all right if you like it. People come to Florida for all sorts of things. Which reminds me of something rich. Heard it from my boatman. He tells me there's a party of New York folks down here hunting for pirate gold. Haw, haw! How about that, eh?"
Embarrassin' pause. Very. Nobody dared look at anybody else. At least, I didn't. I was waverin' between a gasp and a snicker, and was nearly chokin' over it, when Old Hickory clears his throat raspy and menacin'.
"Well, what about it?" he asks snappy.
"Why," says Megrue, "it seems too good to be true, that's all. As I told the boys up at the hotel, if there are any real treasure-hunting bugs around, I want to get a good look at 'em—especially if they're from New York. That's one on you, eh, Ellins? Proves you have a few folks in the big town who have bats in their belfries, don't it?"
That gets an uneasy squirm out of Old Hickory, but he comes right back at him.
"Just why?" he demands.
"Why, great Scott, Ellins," goes on Megrue enthusiastic, "don't you know that buried treasure stuff is the stalest kind of tourist bait in use on the whole Florida coast? The hotel people have been handing that out for the past fifty years. Wouldn't think anyone could be still found who'd bite at it, would you? But it seems they exist. Every once in a while a new lot of come-ons show up, with their old charts and their nice new shovels, and go to digging. Why, I was shown a place just north of Little Gasparilla—Cotton River, they call it—where the banks have been dug up for miles by these simple-minded nuts.
"Every now and then, too, they circulate that musty tale about an old Spaniard, in Tampa or Fort Myers or somewhere, who whispers deathbed directions about finding a chest of gold buried at the foot of a lone palmetto on some key or other. And say, they tell me there isn't a lone tree on this section of the coast that hasn't been dug up by the roots. Good old human nature can't be downed, can it? You can suppress the green-goods and gold-brick games, but folks will still go to shoveling sand if you mention pirates to 'em. What I want is to see 'em at it once."