CHAPTER XI

Naboth’s voice came back to where we sat, and it was loud, and high-pitched and excited. “Rameses III,” says he, “you done it. You done it as sure as if you’d fed him pizen.”

“What did I do? Tell me that. Say.”

“You give Mr. Topper these here appendy-siduses he’s got.”

“I never,” says Rameses III. “In the fust place, I never had none, and what a feller hain’t got, he can’t give.”

“He kin make ’em,” says Naboth.

“I wouldn’t know how to make them things he’s sick with.”

“You don’t have to know how to make ’em.”

“Now you talk sense, Naboth. Stick to facts. Don’t git me riled. Take warnin’ now—don’t git me riled.”

“Listen here,” says Naboth, “what is this here appendy-sidus, anyhow. D’you know?”

“Hain’t got the faintest idee.”

“It resembles stummick ache, only it hain’t stummick ache, but worse and lots more of it. It’s kind of related to stummick ache, sort of like a cousin by marriage, or some sich relationship, and the place where it hurts most is right under your belt. If you don’t git it cut out and pickled in alcohol, why, you die. That’s what that there appendy-siduses is. Clear to you now, hain’t it?”

“Calc’late so,” says Rameses III, “but what’s eatin’ me is how you come to figger I give ’em or it or whichever ’tis, to Mr. Topper.”

“Hain’t I jest told you it was kind of stummick trouble?”

“You done so.”

“Wa-al,” says Naboth, like he’s proved some mighty important point.

“What’s that got to do with fastenin’ the crime onto me?” says Rameses III.

“Why,” says Naboth, “stummick trouble is caused by things you eat.”

“To be sure.”

Naboth kind of backed off a step before he shot his next broadside, like he wanted to be ready for any emergency that might come. “Wa-al,” he said, “the’s jest one kind of food that causes this here appendy-sidus. Jest one kind. And you been givin’ him that three times a day.”

“I have, have I. Not if I know it. Not me. I hain’t never fed nobody food like that.... Say, what you talkin’ about. What kind of food you mean?”

“The kind of grub you feed everybody aboard this boat—jest plain _bad cookin’_,” says Naboth.

Well, sir! Rameses III let out a roar like a black bull with a bee sting in his tail and made for Naboth. He hadn’t seen where the argument was leading him at all, and when it dawned on him that Naboth was casting aspersions on his ability as a cook, things began to happen. Naboth ducked and ran, and Rameses III was right on his heels, hollerin’ for vengeance. Up and down and around and around they went, and nobody in the world can say how it would have ended up. Mr. Browning wasn’t there to stop it, and Catty and I liked the circus too well to try. We just stood by and watched, and hoped for the best. They’d trampled all over the ship about a dozen times, and were just making the thirteenth trip, when, as they passed the hatchway to the engine room, old Tom, the engineer, stuck his whiskers out and took a look. Naboth was right there. Tom reached up and gave Naboth a shove, and Naboth braided his legs and took a header—not onto the deck, but right over the rail into the harbor. Well, mister!

And then, what d’you suppose happened. Why, Rameses he turned on a frightened yell. “He can’t swim,” says he, “He’ll drownd.” And without waiting to take off his hat, he dived in. The next we saw he came up with Naboth in his mouth, like he was a Newfoundland dog, and swam with him to the jacob’s ladder, and we helped haul them in.

Naboth coughed out about a gallon of water, and Rameses III shook himself and scowled, and says to Naboth, “I’d a let you drownd, dog-gone ye, but if I had I wouldn’t ’a’ got the chanct to knock you into a cocked hat like I’m a-goin’ to the minnit this tired spell’s wore off.”

“I wondered what old Tom was for,” says Catty. “Haven’t heard him say a word yet, have you?”

“Guess he’s dumb,” says I. “Whoa. Look there. What’s going on?”

I pointed off towards the big steam yacht, and there, putting off from her shining black sides, were two boats full of men. I grabbed the glasses and counted. There were ten men altogether.

“Now what?” says I.

One boat made off up the bay toward the treasure ground, and the other headed for Nantucket dock. Something was afoot sure, and our business was to keep our eyes open to find out what. We found out in an hour that we couldn’t find out. It was a puzzle. The first boat kept right on and landed way up the beach near the hole Mr. House had dug. The second one tied to the wharf and four of the men climbed ashore and disappeared. We waited and waited, and pretty soon they came back carrying big bundles and three or four things that looked like enormous fried cakes.

“Life preservers,” says I.

“Nope,” says Catty, “too heavy. Look how the men carrying them sag down.”

That was so. Whatever those fried cakes were, they took all a man’s strength to carry one. Well, the crew loaded them in the boat and then they rowed off up the harbor and landed right by the first boat, and unloaded. We couldn’t see very well, but we could make out movement among the bushes and sand dunes like those ten men were working pretty hard. Next we saw Mr. House put off in his power dink and go up there.

“To boss the job,” says Catty, “whatever it is.”

“I’ll bet,” says I, “we aren’t going to like it.”

“The harder they make things, the more credit to us if we beat them,” says Catty.

Now that was just like him. He kind of liked to have things hard, and to have to work like the dickens and puzzle his head. He said anybody could do a thing that was easy, but it took a regular fellow to pull through a tough job. Maybe that was so, but I says to him: “You can have all the honor and credit that’s tied up to one of these tough propositions, but just give me plain, easy sailing when there’s a treasure in sight. I want to be sure of those diamonds and pearls, and no monkey business.”

“I never heard,” says he, “of anybody getting a treasure easy. In every