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Updated: June 20, 2025
But Torchy, will you and Captain Killam bring those sacks?" Did we have 'em goggle-eyed? Say, when we dumped peck after peck of treasure and sand in the middle of the dinner table, and they got to pawin' over those weird old gold pieces and them samples of antique jewelry, it was a knockout for fair. "My word!" gasps J. Dudley. "You must feel like successful bank robbers."
I even discovered that Professor Leonidas Barr, the fish expert and Old Hickory's cribbage partner, had once worked in a shoe store and could still guess the size of a young lady's foot by lookin' at her hands. But when it came to collectin' any new dope about Captain Killam, he's still Rupert the Mysterious.
First I knew, I saw 'em grouped along the side where the companionway stairs was swung Auntie, Old Hickory, and Captain Killam. Rupert seems to be explainin' something. Then in a minute or two the men begin easin' Auntie down into one of the launches tied to the boat boom, and the next I see them go chuggin' off into the moonlight. I hunts up Vee and passes her the word.
"But Captain Killam is with 'em," says I. "What use is he, I'd like to know? Torchy, we must go and find them." "But I don't know any more about runnin' a motor-boat than I do about playin' a trombone," I protests. "I do," says Vee. "I learned in Bermuda one winter. I have coffee and sandwiches here. They'll be hungry." "Better put in some cigars for Mr.
The double-breasted blue serge coat and the blue flannel shirt with the black sailor tie gives me a hunch, though. Maybe he's one of Mr. Robert's yacht captains. "What name?" says I. "Killam," says he. "Rupert Killam." "Sounds bloodthirsty," says I. "Cap'n, eh?" "Why er yes," says he. "That is what I am usually called." "I see," says I. "Used to sail his 60-footer, did you?"
There I was, too, on my way back to Old Hickory, figurin' whether I'd better resign first and report afterwards, or just take my chances that maybe after he'd slept on it he wouldn't be so keen about seein' this Captain Killam again. Then the whole thing hit me on the funnybone. Haw-haw!
"Huh!" grunts Old Hickory, watchin' Killam crawl out and slip around a corner. But say, Mr. Ellins can make that "Huh!" of his mean a lot. He knows when he's been buffaloed, take it from me. My guess is that Rupert's stock is in for a bad slump. I'd quote him about thirty off and no bids. It looked like a case of watchin' out for the stick to come down. Uh-huh!
"He was telling it to me; that is, we were telling it to each other making it up as we went along. So there!" "Oh!" says Mr. Ellins. "And the Captain happened to overhear, did he?" "Happened!" says I. "Like you happen to climb a fire-escape. That's Rupert's long suit overhearin' things. He's been favorin' us a lot lately." "What about that, Killam?" asks Mr. Ellins.
Only there's an amiable cut-up twinkle under them shaggy brows of his, such as I'd never seen there before. "Killam," says he, "why don't you chortle?" "I I beg pardon?" says Rupert. He's sittin' on a log, busy rollin' a cigarette, and in place of his usual solemn air he looks satisfied and happy. That's as much as he can seem to loosen up. "Great pickled persimmons, man!" snorts Old Hickory.
J. Dudley Simms is still roostin' alongside the wireless cabin; and just beyond, crouched behind a stanchion with one ear juttin' out, is Captain Killam. "Fine!" says I. "Rupert's got a steady job, eh?" About then the other folks commence mobilizin' for a drive on the dinin'-room, and someone calls Dudley to come along. "Just a moment," says he, scribblin' on a pad.
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