It seems as if Catty and I have a lot of luck, and this summer we had more than usual, for Mr. Browning, who lived in New York, and was interested in all kinds of businesses, invited us to go for a cruise on his yacht. He was out to our town to see Mr. Atkins on some sort of business, and before we knew it Catty and I were friends with him, and took him fishing, and went around with him—and the day he left he said we were to come for the cruise.

We were to start in July, and it was hard for us to wait for the time to come around, but it did come. We were kind of surprised that it actually did, but as Mr. Atkins says, if you only wait long enough any time will come. We packed our stuff and took the train, and when we woke up next morning we were coming into New York.

Mr. Browning met us and we went to a big hotel, the biggest I ever saw, and after breakfast we got into his automobile and drove out into the country on Long Island. In about an hour we got to the town where Mr. Browning kept his yacht anchored off a club. We didn’t know what kind of a boat it was going to be, but you can bet we were anxious to find out. There were about a hundred yachts anchored there—all kinds, from great steam yachts and enormous sailing yachts to little thirty-foot launches.

There was a power dinghy tied to the float and a man in it dressed in “whites.” The name Albatross was on the dinghy in gold letters, so we knew it belonged to Mr. Browning, for that was the name of his yacht. Mr. Browning walked out on the float and says, “Hello, Naboth. Everything ready?”

“Ready as human hands kin git it—considerin’,” says Naboth.

“Help get the baggage aboard. Here’s the rest of our crew, Naboth. Catty Atkins and Wee-wee Moore.”

“Huh. Eat more ’n they’ll work,” said Naboth.

“We’ll set them polishing brass,” says Mr. Browning.

“Won’t nuther. Don’t calc’late to have no boys tinkerin’ with my brass. ’Tain’t ’s if it was ord’nary brass. Uh-uh. Seems like I raised that brass from a pup. Hain’t nobody goin’ to tetch a polishin’ rag to it but me, not so long’s I’m able to waggle a fist.... You hear that?” he says, turning to us kind of fierce.

We said we heard, and he said we’d better hear and heed, and then we all got into the dinghy and Naboth started the engine, and we went skittering out toward the fleet. In about three minutes we came up under the stern of a big white boat with Albatross across her stern, and Naboth brought the dinghy up against her jacob’s ladder as soft as if it was an egg and he was afraid of breaking it.

“Make ’em git rubber soles on quick, so’s they won’t scratch up my deck,” says he.

I began to wonder who owned the yacht—whether it was Mr. Browning or Naboth, but I didn’t say anything, and neither did Catty. As Catty says, “You never make a fool of yourself by keeping your mouth shut and your eyes open.”

We climbed up to the deck, and then Mr. Browning took us down into the cabin. You’d be surprised how big that room was. Why it was almost as big as the parlor at home! Behind it was Mr. Browning’s stateroom, with two berths in it, and forward of the cabin was a bath room and the galley, and then came the engine room with the biggest six-cylinder engine I ever saw, and still ahead of that was the crew’s quarters. The boat was seventy feet long! And clean! And shining!

In the main cabin were four Pullman berths that folded into the wall, and Mr. Browning said Catty and I were to sleep there. He showed us how to take them down, and there they were, with the bed clothes all strapped on, and behind them some shelves for our clothes. He told us to fix things up and then to come on deck, for we would be getting under way in a few minutes.

We hustled and then went up on the bridge where we found Mr. Atkins talking to a young man who was introduced to us as Mr. Topper. He looked as if he was about twenty-six or seven, and was so long and thin and sad looking we didn’t know what to make of him. He hardly said a word, but just sat on the leather cushion looking off at the water and wiggling his fingers.

The crew, Mr. Topper said, was Naboth and the engineer, whose name was Tom, and the cook, whose name was Rameses III.

“Rameses III?” says I. “Is he a king or something?”

“He’s a king of a cook. No, that’s his name. Rameses Third. Comes from Cape Cod some place. Always fighting with Naboth,” said Mr. Browning.

Pretty soon the crew cast off the mooring, and we were on our way. Mr. Browning was at the wheel, and we started out of the harbor for Long Island Sound. It was a lovely day, and the water was as smooth as glass. Lots of small boats were all around us, and everybody seemed happy except Mr. Topper, and he was about the gloomiest looking man I ever saw.

Just as we came out of the harbor we saw a black yacht, almost as big as we were. It was going along slow, and I saw somebody on deck watching us through glasses. Mr. Topper sat up and made a face and says, “What boat’s that?”

“Never saw her before,” says Mr. Browning. “Why?”

“I don’t like her looks,” says Mr. Topper. “There’s something about that boat that goes against my grain.”

“Fiddlesticks,” says Mr. Browning.

“She’ll follow us,” says Mr. Topper.

“Nonsense. Nobody knows you’re here. Nobody knows anything about what we’re up to.”

“You can’t tell. If that boat follows us——”

“But it won’t,” says Mr. Browning.

I looked at Catty and Catty looked at me. That was funny kind of talk, and I wondered what we were getting into.

We turned up the sound, and, sure enough, the black yacht circled and turned and came right along in our wake, about half a mile behind us. Topper pointed. “There,” says he, “what did I tell you?”

“You’re seeing things,” says Mr. Browning. “Black boat, isn’t there?”

“Yes.”

“Turned and followed us, didn’t she?”

“She turned, but not to follow us. Why, Topper, what in the world would anybody follow us for?”

“You know that as well as I do,” said Mr. Topper.

“But nobody knows but you and I.”

“Can’t ever tell. You can’t keep anything secret in this world.”

“We’ve kept this secret. Nobody knows what you know, and nobody knows what I know.”

“But somebody may know I’ve been there, and somebody may suspect—what I know.”

“You’ve got the shivers,” says Mr. Browning.

“I don’t want to lose out now, after all the trouble I’ve been through.”

“And you won’t,” says Mr. Browning. “Forget it.”

I was interested, you can bet, but just then I heard a racket on the after deck that sounded as if we had been boarded by pirates, and when I looked back, there were Naboth and Rameses III going it like all git out. Naboth had Rameses backed against the rail and was whacking at him with a dirty rag, and Rameses was whacking back with might and main, and the way they hollered at each other was a caution.

“You will go monkeyin’ with my brass, will ye?” Naboth hollered. “You hip-shouldered, bow-legged, cow-eyed wampus! Hain’t I told you time and again that I’d chaw ye up if I ketched you layin’ a rag to that rail? Eh? What d’you know about polishin’ brass, you soup-stirrin’, apple-stewin’ whang-doodle?”

“You hit me with that there rag, and I calc’late to show you. I was polishin’ brass when you was cuttin’ eye teeth. I know more about brass polishin’ in a minute than you do in a year. I got a right to shine brass if I want to. Hain’t I part of this here crew, you leather-necked ol’ turtle?”

“They’re at it again,” says Mr. Browning. “Been at it just like that ever since anybody ever heard of them. They always ship on the same yacht. You can’t separate them, but they never do a thing but fight. Next row’ll be because Naboth pokes his nose into the galley. Rameses thinks he’s a sailorman, and Naboth believes he’s a cook.”

“Why not let them swap jobs,” says Catty.

“Some day I’m going to try it,” says Mr. Browning, and then the noise got so loud he turned and yelled at the men. “Hey,” he says, “stop the noise or I’ll heave you both overboard. You get below Rameses III and get lunch. You Naboth, get things stowed away shipshape in the lazarette.”

They quit in a second and Rameses III ducked below. I turned to look behind, and there was the black yacht, not more than half a mile behind, cutting through the water as business-like as could be.

Catty motioned to me and jerked his head aft. I saw he wanted to say something to me, so I got up and went to the after deck and he came along in a minute.

“Hear that talk?” says he.

“Not being deaf,” says I, “I did.”

“What did you make out of it?”

“Nothing,” says I, “unless Mr. Topper is crazy, or he’s running away from somebody with something.”

“Um. He doesn’t look crazy to me.”

“That settles it then,” says I, kind of sarcastic.

“And he isn’t running away from the police. Mr. Browning wouldn’t have that kind of a man aboard.”

“What then?” says I.

“Treasure,” says he, “buried treasure. Old Captain Kidd used to hang around these parts.”

“Piffle,” says I. “All the treasure’s been dug up long before this.”

“Bet it hasn’t,” says he. “Bet Mr. Topper’s got a map, and that black yacht is full of folks who know it, and they’re going to attack us and take it away from him.”

“You’ve been reading books,” says I. “Look, there’s New York back there. Over there is Connecticut. This is Long Island. You’re off your base.”

“All right,” says he, “you wait and see. Come on, they may suspect we’re talking about it.”

We walked forward, and just as I got to the bridge I heard Mr. Browning say, “Hush. Here come the kids. You’ll be scaring the lives out of them.”

Well we chugged along and Mr. Browning showed us how to keep the log and navigate by chart. He showed us how to set a course, and all day we were busy checking up lights and nuns and bell buoys and beacons and red and black stakes. It was a lot of fun, and Mr. Browning said if a fog was to come up, that would be how we would find our way. Every time we passed a mark we would put it down in the log with the exact hour and minute.

Along about five o’clock—we had crossed the sound diagonally and were running up the Connecticut shore just near enough so we could see how lively it was through the glasses—Mr. Browning says, “There we are. The Thimbles. It’s a hard place to get into. All rocks and reefs.” He slacked speed and headed for what looked like a solid cliff of rock, and on both sides we could see the water lapping on nasty ledges of rock. In a few minutes we swung into a channel of deep water, with high rocks lifting on either side, and on the rocks were summer cottages. And pretty soon we were right among the Thimbles, and could see dozens and dozens of little rock islands, all with cottages on them, and channels running every which way.

“This used to be a refuge for pirates, years and years ago,” said Mr. Browning. “They used to run in here and hide, and folks have dug up every inch of this place for buried treasure.”

“Ever find any?” says Catty.

“I 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.