The breeze held strongly and the Josephine made splendid progress. The life on shipboard had endless attractions for the four young boys. They learned the parts of the ship, the names of the sails and how to navigate. Sailors taught them to splice ropes and how to tie the hundred and one knots familiar to those who follow the sea. The weather was ideal and as everything went well, all on board were in excellent spirits.

“I guess Sam was wrong about this hard luck business,” remarked John Clemens one day to Grant Jones. The two boys were standing near the bow of the brig, watching two of Mother Carey’s chickens, those friendly little birds that follow and play around boats even out in the middle of the ocean.

“It certainly looks so, String,” said Grant. “We can’t hold much against the Finn so far, can we?”

“I should say not. Let’s hope it keeps up.”

“I don’t see how it can,” said Grant. “So far it has been almost too good to be true, and I don’t see how it can last.”

“I think it will though.”

“Sam says not. He says that maybe we have escaped so far but he still insists we’re going to have something happen to us before we’re through.”

“He’s cheerful, isn’t he?” laughed John. “I’m not worrying though.”

“Mr. Johnson says that we’re almost bound to strike bad weather when we get into the gulf-stream.”

“Why’s that?”

“I don’t know except for what he said. He says that sometimes you can see the low banks of clouds over the gulf-stream and that you may run from a clear sky and light wind, with all sail, into a heavy sea and cloudy sky where you’ll need double reefs.”

“Isn’t that queer,” exclaimed John. “I wonder when we’ll reach it.”

“Fairly soon, I should say,” said Grant. “We must be getting pretty far south by now.”

“We are. Captain Dodge told me we’d be in the West Indies before long.”

“I wish we could stop.”

“You want to see everything,” laughed John. “We’re going to South America, aren’t we? What more do you want?”

At that moment Fred and George Sanders approached the two boys.

“We ought to be Sons of Neptune in a few days,” exclaimed George gayly as he and Fred came up to the place where their two friends were standing.

“What do you mean by that, Pop?” asked John curiously.

“Just what I say, String, my boy,” said George. “You don’t mean to tell me that you don’t know what a Son of Neptune is! Every man that sails any of the seven seas ought to know that.”

“Don’t be funny, Pop,” warned John, assuming a threatening attitude. “Tell me what it means and be quick about it.”

“You swear you don’t know?”

“You heard what I said, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” grinned Pop, “but you know I don’t believe half what you say.”

“Throw him overboard, String,” urged Fred. “Don’t fool with him any longer.”

“That’s just about what I had decided to do,” said John.

“Wait,” cried Pop, stepping forward and holding up his hand dramatically. “Spare my life and I will tell all.”

“Be quick about it then,” warned John. “I shan’t fool with you much longer.”

“I know it,” said Pop, pretending to be greatly alarmed. “I know it, String, and I must say I am awfully frightened.”

John stepped forward and raised his hands as if he was about to seize George W. Sanders by the neck. He had no opportunity to do so, however.

“I’ll tell. I’ll tell,” cried Pop quickly.

“I’ll give you till I count three,” said John. “One, two–”

“A man becomes a Son of Neptune,” said George, “when he has crossed the equator on a boat. Now will you promise not to hurt me? Not that you could do it if you tried,” he added, but he muttered the words so softly to himself that no one else heard him.

“Is that what a Son of Neptune is?” exclaimed John.

“Yes, String, that’s what a Son of Neptune is,” said George, imitating as nearly as possible his friend’s tone of voice.

“Who told you?” demanded Grant.

“What has that got to do with it?”

“Who told you?” repeated Grant sharply. “We’ll have to take some of this freshness out of him pretty soon, String,” he added.

“We surely will,” agreed John readily. “I’m ready at any time.”

The four friends loved to tease and banter one another and oftentimes an outsider might have thought from their conversation that they had lost their tempers. Such, however, was never the case. They knew one another too well and all had too much sense for any such foolishness. In particular they all liked to tease and threaten Pop Sanders, though in any contest of wits he usually held his own and the threats of his comrades had no effect upon him whatever.

“For the third and last time, who told you?” demanded Grant.

“Petersen told me.”

“You’ve been talking to the Finn, have you?” exclaimed Fred.

“Yes, and he’s a nice fellow, too.”

“Maybe you’ll get his hard luck away from him,” laughed Grant.

“I guess he’s had hard luck himself all right,” said Pop seriously. “That doesn’t mean he’ll give it to others though.”

“What hard luck has he had?” asked John.

“Well, his father died when he was a baby and he was left with a big family of children to be brought up by his mother. She had no money and of course had an awfully hard time of it. Two of his sisters died of scarlet fever, a younger brother was drowned and finally his mother got pneumonia and she died. I call that pretty tough luck myself.”

“So do I,” agreed Grant readily.

“If Sam heard all those things he’d surely say it was because it was a family of Finns,” said Fred. “He’d say they brought hard luck to one another.”

“He probably would,” laughed Pop. “Still I feel sorry for a fellow who has had all that trouble.”

“What did his father do?” asked John.

“He was a bad character principally, I guess,” said Pop. “He was also a sailor at times.”

“You must have had quite a long talk with Petersen, Pop,” said Grant. “How did he happen to get so confidential?”

“I don’t know. We just got talking, that’s all, and the first thing I knew he began to tell me the story of his life.”

“His father left the family no money, I imagine,” said Fred.

“Certainly not. He left debts. The only thing he left was a bad reputation and this thing which Petersen gave to me,” and as he spoke Pop reached in his hip pocket and brought out what appeared to be a dirty piece of old paper, folded up.

“What’s that?” demanded Grant quickly.

“I don’t know,” said George. “See for yourself.”

He handed the object in question to Grant who straightway unfolded it and glanced at it eagerly.

“It’s nothing but a lot of numbers,” he exclaimed disappointedly.

“I know it,” said George. “Just a lot of old faded numbers written on a piece of parchment.”

“What’s it supposed to be?” asked John curiously.

“Petersen thinks it’s some sort of a code. Maybe it is but I think myself it is nothing at all, and that it might as well be thrown overboard.”

“What makes him think it’s a code?” said Grant.

“Nothing much that I know of,” replied Pop. “He said it was found sewed inside the lining of a coat his father used to have and so he thought it must be valuable. He said that the neighbors used to tell some kind of weird stories about his father having been connected with buried treasure or something like that, and he is sure this has something to do with it. Personally I think he is mistaken about it.”

“If he thinks it so valuable why did he give it to you?” demanded Fred.

“He didn’t really give it to me to keep. He wanted me to try and decipher the code and tell him what it says.”

“Did you do it?” laughed John.

“No, you Son of Neptune,” exclaimed George. “I did not. I offered to read the numbers to him, but he said he could do that much himself.”

“Where’s this treasure buried?” asked Fred.

“That’s just what Petersen wants to find out,” said Pop. “That certainly was an awfully smart question to ask, Fred.”

“I thought he might know the island or whatever it is where the stuff is supposed to be buried, but not the exact location of the jewels on the island.”

“How do you know it’s jewels?”

“It always is, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know anything about it,” said Pop. “For all we know Petersen may be playing a joke on us. We’re all landlubbers of course and the crew might have decided to initiate us a little.”

“Perhaps,” agreed John. “The parchment looks old though.”

“What are the numbers, Grant?” asked Fred. “Read them out.”

“Twenty,” began Grant when he was interrupted.

“Add ’em up, you fellows,” laughed George. “The total tells how old Anne is.”

“Let him read them, Pop,” urged John. “Give him a chance.”

“Twenty, one, eleven, five, one, three, fifteen, twenty-one, eighteen, nineteen, five.” Grant paused. “That’s a funny thing” he said. “Every number is distinctly separated from the next one. It certainly seems as if it must mean something.”

“All right, I’ll tell Petersen that you are going to solve the mystery, Socrates, my boy,” laughed Pop. “Shall I?”

Before Grant could answer there was a shout. A few sharp orders were given and immediately everything on board the Josephine was bustle and hurry. The crew came rushing out on deck, and scattered hither and thither all over the brig in obedience to the orders that were being given so rapidly. An anxious look was on the faces of all the men.