The youth drew a calculating breath and eyed his questioner narrowly.
“I assisted, a short time back, to capture one eighteen feet long,” he lied coldly. The man on the lounge accepted the statement with a patronizing little nod.
“There now!” he agreed. “It just bears out what I say. Nowadays there aren’t any of a size to call alligators. When I was in Florida, it might be forty or it might be fifty years ago, that kind of small fry were reckoned in among the lizards. When we went hunting what the New York manufacturers call crocodile leather, anything less than four fathoms from tail-tip to smile we shouldered out of the way. One of thirty feet, I allow, we considered a circumstance.”
A murmur rustled up from the assembly. Even the steward’s unconscious grimace spoke of incredulity.
“Yes,” continued the old man pleasantly. “I see your eyebrows rise, but that won’t prevent my assuring you that my recollections don’t stop there. For over a year I had the personal acquaintance of one that measured from end to end not a single inch less than twelve slimy yards. But that,” he allowed generously, “was not in Florida.”
“Barnum’s Museum?” suggested Morehead contemptuously, and the listeners grinned. The veteran was not put out.
“No,” he contradicted, “not even in the United States. Yet, at the same time, not so far from home. In Cuba—to be explicit.”
There was a shout of derision. Not less than six of those present had been volunteers in the war.
“Cuba!” they bawled in chorus. “There isn’t a crocodile in the island that would crowd a bathtub!” added Morehead defiantly.
The graybeard eyed them serenely.