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“Uncle Jim’s got it again,” said Nancy. She was sitting on the top of the capstan on the foredeck of the Wild Cat, watching the yachts at Cowes reflected in the smooth oily water. They had had a good night below decks, though in the deckhouse Captain Flint and Peter Duck had been talking still, when the last of their crew had fallen asleep. Breakfast was over, a very early one. Roger was sitting on the edge of the forehatch, playing with Gibber. Titty was hoisting the parrot’s cage on the forestay in place of the riding-light that had hung there all night. Peggy and Susan were peeling potatoes, John was leaning over the bulwarks watching the anchored vessels, which were heading all ways in the slack water, and wondering when they would begin to show that the tide was turning west.

“What’s he got?” asked Peggy.

“Just look at him,” said Nancy. “He’s just like he was the last time he went off to the Malays. Or was it Java? Don’t you remember how he used to prance up and down the houseboat? It’s a sort of fidgets.”

They all looked aft. Peter Duck was sitting there on a little canvas stool he had brought out of the deckhouse, busy putting a shine on the sidelights and the riding-light that he had on the deck beside him. He was working hard but with no hurry, enjoying his pipe and the morning sunshine, content with everything. But Captain Flint was walking up and down the deck from the wheel to the mainmast and back, lighting his pipe again and again and throwing the matches overboard. He looked as if he did not know whether the sun was shining or not. Suddenly he stopped short, as if he had made up his mind about something, but then he shook his head and went on walking up and down with his pipe in one hand and a matchbox in the other.

“It was just the same before he went to South America,” said Nancy.

“He looks awfully Captain Flintish,” said Titty.

“That’s what he’s feeling like,” said Nancy. “He’s just bursting to go off somewhere and do something.”

“To show that he hasn’t quite retired?”

“Something like that. When he feels too retired he always tries to dash off.”

“So he could with a ship like this,” said Titty. “I heard Mr. Duck say so.”

“It’s Mr. Duck’s story that’s stirred him up so. And then knowing that Black Jake was going off to have another dig. I knew what he was thinking of when he went and bought those spades last night.”

“I say,” said John, who had been listening, but saying nothing. “Anybody been into the deckhouse this morning? Did you notice the chart they had on the table?”

“The English Channel,” said Nancy.

“It wasn’t,” said John. “It was a chart of the Caribbees.”

“Pheew!” said Nancy. “But I might have guessed it.”

Captain Flint walked forward and joined them. At least, he had a look over the bows at the anchor chain which was hanging straight up and down. Then he shifted one of the capstan bars in its place in the rack against the bulwarks. Then he had a look at all the halyards on the foremast. Then he said “Pretty Polly” to the parrot, but turned away sharply when the parrot sang out “Pieces of eight!” in reply. Then, for a minute or two, he stood looking down into the two buckets that stood between Susan and Peggy, one half full of potato peelings and the other with a lot of large white shiny potatoes in it just covered with water. Then, for the hundredth time that morning, he lit a match and was going to light his pipe with it, but stopped, looking at his pipe and thinking of something else, until the match burnt his fingers and he had to throw it overboard in a hurry.

“Spit it out, Uncle Jim,” said Nancy, kindly enough. “We’re all waiting.”

“He’s Captain Flint when he’s afloat,” said Titty.

“Jibbooms and bobstays!” said Nancy, “then what’s he humming and hawing about?”

Captain Flint glanced aft. Peter Duck was comparing the two big copper sidelights and giving a last shine to the one he thought needed it most. Captain Flint made up his mind to speak.

“It’s Mr. Duck’s story,” he said at last. “You heard it, all of you. Well, what do you think about it?”

John and Nancy looked at each other, but said nothing.

“It’s a fine story,” said Titty, “especially that part about the crabs.”

“If crabs are really as big as that,” said Roger. “Have you ever seen crabs as big as that?”

“I wasn’t thinking of the crabs,” said Captain Flint. “It’s the treasure. Mr. Duck saw it buried. Saw it, mind you. That’s Point One. Miles better than any old tale about a chart all covered with skeletons and red ink that one old sailor had from another who had it from his great-uncle who thought that his grandfather had been a lively fellow on the Spanish Main. Mr. Duck saw the stuff buried. That’s Point One. . . .”

“He didn’t say it was treasure, did he?” said Susan. “I thought he didn’t know. It might be anything.”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” said Captain Flint. “It’s so jolly hot in those West Indian islands that no man ever walked even half a mile there to bury something that he didn’t think was well worth while keeping to himself. No. It stands to reason it was treasure. And Mr. Duck himself saw it buried. Point One. Now. The two scoundrels who buried it were both drowned. No rival claims. They had no time to tell another soul about it. It’s still there. It’s as good as if Mr. Duck had buried it himself. We know it was buried. Point One. We know that nobody knows where it was buried except Mr. Duck. That’s Point Two. It’s the surest thing that ever was waiting to fall into anybody’s mouth. It’s like a bit of Euclid. Two things equal to the same thing are equal to each other. Q.E.D.”

“What about Black Jake?” said Nancy.

“He knows where the island is, because he stole the bit of paper Mr. Duck had sewed up in a scrap of old jacket,” said Peggy.

“Right,” said Captain Flint. “Black Jake is Point Three. He knows where the island is, but he doesn’t know where the stuff was buried. Here’s a man who sailed to Crab Island to look for it, didn’t find it, because Mr. Duck hadn’t told him where to dig, and came back still thinking it such a likely place that he’s off to have another try. Here’s a man who goes half mad when he sees Mr. Duck shipping with us, for fear he’s going to show us where that stuff was buried. Black Jake’s Point Three. He’s seen the island and he’s keener than ever.”

“Perhaps he’ll find it this time,” said John.

“Not without Mr. Duck to help him,” said Captain Flint.

“Look here, Uncle Jim,” said Nancy, “what do you want to do about it?”

“Well, I can’t help thinking it’s almost a crime to leave it there. A sure thing like that. I’ve been treasure-hunting all my life, but I’ve never been after a thing as sure as that. I must say I should like to bring it off, just for once.”

“You know he never really has,” said Nancy.

“It seems such a pity not to,” said Captain Flint, “with a ship like this fairly stuffed with stores. . . . And Mr. Duck himself aboard her.”

“But Mr. Duck doesn’t want to go to Crab Island ever again,” said Titty.

“I know,” said Captain Flint unhappily. “But he might change his mind.”

“He wouldn’t like Black Jake to have it, whatever it is,” said Nancy.

“That’s just it,” said Captain Flint.

“But Black Jake’s started probably already,” said Roger. “We ought to be using our engine.”

“Mr. Duck thinks he’s waiting for us.”

“Well, let’s go anyway,” said Titty.

“Yes, let’s go,” said Susan. “Some time or other, when we’ve had a bit more practice. Let’s go next year. It’s the sort of thing that wants a lot of planning.”

“I suppose you’re right,” said Captain Flint dully, after brightening up at the first words Susan had said. “And anyway, it’s Mr. Duck’s treasure, and we can’t very well go after it if he doesn’t change his mind. But . . .” He stopped short.

Peter Duck had put the sidelights away and was coming along the deck.

“Vessels is beginning to swing,” he said cheerfully, “and I feel a breath just now. And then another. It’s coming down out of the north-east again. See that ripple yonder. If we was to start hoisting sail we’d be ready for it. There’s no sense wasting an easterly when bound down Channel. Easterlies is rare.”

They looked across towards Southampton Water. Vessels anchored by Cowes were beginning to swing, showing that the tide was turning. The Wild Cat was swinging, too, and, with the turn of the tide, a gentle breeze came out of the north-east, strengthening to a steady sailing wind.

“You’re right, Mr. Duck,” said Captain Flint. “We’ll make all the use we can of it. No harm in that, anyway. All hands to make sail. You’ll have to shift that parrot off the forestay.”

The potato peelings went flying over the side. That strange green-feathered riding-light was lowered and, shrieking, “Pieces of eight!” was carried below decks, like Gibber the monkey, in order to be out of the way. Susan ran with the potatoes to the galley, and put both buckets inside the door. John, Nancy, and Peggy fitted capstan bars, while Captain Flint and Peter Duck together hoisted up the sails. In a very few minutes the crew were walking round the capstan to the old tune of “Amsterdam,” while Peter Duck was looking over the bulwarks to see the anchor come up, and to sign to them when to stop. The Wild Cat was off again.

When the bustle of getting under way was over, and ropes were coiled down and the deck cleared, Nancy went forward once more to her seat on the capstan, taking Susan with her. The others were all at the stern watching Peter Duck at the wheel. Captain Flint was in the deckhouse, looking at the chart.

“It’s almost a pity we can’t let him do it,” said Nancy.

“Well, it’s such a tremendous way,” said Susan.

“It isn’t really that that matters,” said Nancy. “It never matters how far you go. Exploring’s only going next door, but it’s going on going next door without turning back. But if there aren’t any shops on the way, what are you going to do? It really all depends on you and Peggy making the food and water last out.”

“Of course there’s an awful lot of food,” said Susan, “but we don’t really know how much. Peggy and I have only just begun to go through the lists.”

“If it wasn’t for having all of us on board he’d be going,” said Nancy.

“Yes,” said Susan, “I suppose he would.”

With wind and tide to help her, the Wild Cat soon passed Egypt Point. Cowes was no longer to be seen. A big liner with four funnels was coming up the Solent. “In from New York,” said Captain Flint, who had come out from the deckhouse and was looking at the liner through binoculars.

“Water all the way,” said Titty.

“What do you mean?” said Peggy. “Of course it’s water all the way.”

“That’s the lovely thing about water. Salt water, I mean. It’s not like the lake. Once you’re on it, there’s nothing to stop you going anywhere.”

Captain Flint looked at her hopefully.

“There really isn’t,” he said. “Titty’s quite right.”

“May I look through the glasses?” said Roger.

The others came aft, and crowded into the deckhouse to look at the chart, to see just what was happening, and then crowded out again to look at buoys and landmarks and to make sure that they had seen right. It was a grand day now, of bright sunshine, with a steady, cool wind. It was enough to make anybody happy, just to be afloat and sailing, to see the green shores racing past, to see the bubbling wake slipping away astern, to see all the sails drawing, to hear now and then a gentle, low thrumming in the shrouds, to see the sunlight sparkle in the spray thrown out to leeward by the bows of the little schooner.

“I wish this was going on for ever,” said Titty.

“No sense in stopping while this wind holds,” said old Mr. Duck, who was at the wheel, steering her so easily, so steadily that her bowsprit end drew only the tiniest of circles on the sky, and the compass seemed stuck in its bowl, and the wake the Wild Cat left astern might have been drawn with a ruler. There was need for careful steering now, for she was heading south-west through the Needles Channel, and the wind was dead aft.

“We seem to have lost Black Jake all right,” said Nancy.

“He’s probably gone back to look for us,” said John.

“He’s racing us,” said Roger. “Miles ahead.”

But just then, as the Needle Rocks, dark above the blue sunlit sea, drew into a line with the lighthouse on the last of them, and the little group in the stern of the Wild Cat could see past the point and behind the white, green-topped cliffs, Captain Flint gave a startled grunt. Peter Duck glanced over his shoulder.

“It’s a rare bad anchorage that in most winds,” he said, “but good enough in north-easterlies. He knew what was coming. Nothing to do but to lift his peaks and be after us again.”

“Is it really the Viper?” asked Peggy, looking at a schooner that seemed to be airing her sails, anchored under the lee of the land.

“Of course it is,” said Nancy. “There’s his headsails going up. He’s been waiting for us.”

The sails of the black schooner filled, and slowly, sheltered by the land, she gathered way. The Wild Cat was no longer alone.

“But why did he wait for us?” said Peggy.

“What a galoot you are,” said her sister. “Don’t you see now? He thinks Mr. Duck’s sailing with us to show us where the treasure is. He means to come too.”

“Well, it’s waste of time for him,” said Susan. “Won’t he be mad when we turn round to go home?”

“But,” said Titty, “if he doesn’t want to lose us, why didn’t he come to Cowes with us last night and anchor close by?”

“Why should he?” said Peter Duck. “That’s not his way. He don’t want to lose his men ashore, for one thing. Then he’s told them he’d pick us up this morning coming out by the Needles. Well, here we are. That sort of thing sets a skipper up with his crew. You see, he’s dead certain sure he knows the port we’re bound for.”

“I wish he was right,” said Captain Flint.