y from the world in general is the lack of a stock ticker
aboard. Seems he'd loaded up with a certain war baby before sailing
and while the deal wouldn't either make or break him, he had a sportin'
interest in which way the market was waverin'.

"Well, how do you guess Consolidated Munitions closed yesterday?" I
asks.

Dudley shakes his head mournful.

"I dreamed last night of seeing a flock of doves," says he. "That's a
bad sign. I'd give a dollar for a glimpse at a morning paper."

"They say Charleston's only a couple hundred miles off there," says I.
"If it wasn't so soggy walkin' I'd run in and get you one."

"No," says he; "you'd be late for breakfast. I wonder if our wireless
man couldn't get in touch with some of the shore stations."

"Sure he could," says I, "but don't let on what stock you're plungin'
on. His name's Meyers. He's a hyphen, you know. And if he got wise
to your havin' war-baby shares he'd likely hold out on you. But you
might jolly him into gettin' a general quotation list. I'd stick
around this forenoon if I was you."

"By Jove!" says J. Dudley. "I will."

And maybe you know how welcome any new way of killin' time can be when
you're out on a boat with nothin' doin' but three or four calls to grub
a day. Dudley goes it strong. He plants himself in a chair just
outside the wireless man's little coop, and begins feedin' Meyers
monogrammed cigarettes and frivolous anecdotes of his past life.

Havin' the scene set like that made it easy. All I has to do is sketch
out the plot to Vee and wait for Rupert to come gum-shoein' around.

"Just follow my lead, that's all," says I, as we fixes some seat
cushions in the shade of one of the lifeboats on the upper deck. "And
when you spot him--"

"He's coming up now," whispers Vee.

"Then here goes for improvisin' a mystery," says I. "Is he near
enough?"

Vee glances over her shoulder.

"Go on," says she. Then, a bit louder: "Tell--tell me the worst,
Torchy."

"I ain't sure yet," says I, "but take it from me there's something
bein' hatched on this yacht besides cold-storage eggs."

"Hatched?" says Vee.

"S-s-s-sh!" says I. "Underhanded work; mutiny, maybe."

"O-o-o-oh!" says Vee, givin' a little squeal. "Who could do anything
like that?"

"I'm not saying," says I; "but there's a certain party who ain't just
what he seems. You'd never guess, either. But just keep your eye on
J. Dudley."

"Wh-a-at!" gasps Vee. "Mr. Si