don’t know,” says he.

“Do you think there is any—anywheres? Must have all been dug up years ago,” says Catty.

“Oh, I don’t know,” says Mr. Browning. “I guess a lot of it was buried, and it isn’t likely it’s all been found.”

“Gosh,” said Catty, “I wish we could get a chance to dig for some.”

“Well,” says Mr. Browning, with a grin, “you may before this cruise has ended. Never can tell what will happen when you’re on salt water.”

Catty looked at me and wrinkled his nose, as much as to say, “I told you so.”

And then—the black yacht nosed through the passage and dropped her anchor not a hundred yards from us.

CHAPTER II

Mr. Topper just pointed with the longest, boniest finger I ever saw, and I thought he was going to cry.

“There,” says he. “Look at that.”

“Fiddlesticks,” says Mr. Browning. “Ninety yachts out of a hundred come in here for anchorage the first night out of New York.”

Mr. Topper grabbed the glasses and stared at the black yacht. “Her name’s Porpoise,” he said.

“See anybody you know?”

Mr. Topper shook his head. “Everybody’s below except a man in dungarees. Part of the crew. Smoke’s coming out of the funnel. Galley stovepipe must come up there. Probably all getting ready for dinner.”

“Then,” said Mr. Browning with a chuckle, “whether they’re friendly or hostile, we won’t have to worry for an hour.” And just then Rameses III poked his head above deck and stood there mumbling.

“Food’s on the table. Gittin’ cold. Work myself to the bone gittin’ hot grub for folks and they never do nothin’ but dally and loiter till it’s colder’n dead fish. Dunno whatever I took up with bein’ a cook fer. Git no thanks. Nothin’ but kicks and dishwashin’. Nothin’ to me whether folks eats hot food or not. Sp’ile their stummicks if they want to. I do my duty, and if they hain’t willin’ to profit by it, why, ’tain’t no skin off’n my neck.”

We filed down and took 

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