general direction of the lower neck of Biscayne Bay and the Fowney Rocks light. 
“Tell us,” said Nicky, before Cliff could warn him again, “is that called Crocodile Key?” He indicated the land at their bow. 
Nelse started. He almost dropped his pipe. Then he straightened. Nicky felt eyes that were suddenly very piercing, boring at him in the deepening twilight. 
“How come you ast that?” demanded Nelse. 
Mr. Neale took things in hand before Nicky could commit himself further. 
“Somebody told them there was such a place nearby, and I had a notion I’d try for a croc’ if that is so,” he declared. 
Nelse sat up straight and bent forward while Pomp’ in his boat subdued a cackle of laughter and became very serious, an expression that made his plump face look ludicrously like a monkey’s. 
“Listen!” ordered Nelse, sharply, “for your own sakes, keep away f’om that place yonder—’specially at nights!” 
“Why?” said Tom, his voice beginning to get weak. 
“Because!” declared Nelse, “they say that Black Caesar buried some treasure there one time. And——” 
“All the more reason—” began Nicky. 
Nelse silenced him with a curt shake of the head. 
“And—” he took up his talk, “Black Caesar was the meanest and most brutal pirate that ever lived! They say, if anybody comes to try to git his treasure, him and his mates appears—ghos’s, you know! An’ woe betide them what they puts their spell on!” 
Sam had retired, shuddering and groaning, to the cabin. Pomp’ began to look over his shoulder. “Mas’ Nelse,” he quavered, “come on, suh—don’ talk no moah ’bout dat! Le’s git on home—please!” 
Nelse nodded. “You see, I reckon,” he said. “Ever’body here-’bouts believes hit.” 
“Have you ever seen the pirates—are they real or spooks?” asked Nicky. 
“Comin’ home, late, one night, bein’ becalmed in a sail boat—I see ’em. Loading chests o’ treasure in the moonlight! Bet you I never want to see ’em no more! No, suh!” Pomp’ gasped. 
“And,” added Nelse to his servant’s tale, “next day after Pomp’ told me—he was near-’bout scared out o’ his clo’es—I took me a rifle an’ went onto that land ’side o’ the inlet, there—where you see that bit o’ rock under the mangrove—an’—an’—they had been some man there, it looked like he had been tryin’ to locate somethin’ and started to dig for it—but—he—won’t—never—dig—no mo’!” 
The three chums shuddered in spite of themselves. 
“Hurt?” asked Mr. Neale. 
“Beyond hurtin’—” said Nelse solemnly. He refused an invitation to stay for supper, complied with Pomp’s pleading and tumbled into his boat. 
“If I was you,” he said in farewell, “an’ had any idea o’ tryin’ for what I reckon may be hid on that strip o’ land—I’d up sail an’ away quick’s the wind ’ud take me!” 
“Yes, sar!” mumbled Sam in the cabin. 
“But whatever you do,” called Nelse, “if there is any 

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