"What about the cabins?" Regina asked. "Will you turn them into dining rooms, too?"

"Not at first-at least, not until we see how business goes. We'll just keep them as living quarters and expand the galley to-" Whit broke off and strode over to the rail.

"Seasick-after two years of destroyer duty?" Greg hooted.

"That's the second time that car has driven past here." Whit frowned, staring after a pair of rapidly disappearing tail-lights along the bend of the water front.

"Same car? So what? Maybe they like the view," Greg said offhandedly.

"Maybe."

"You don't think it might have been that dreadful Mr. Smith, do you?" Barbara asked.

A sober expression had settled over Whit's face. "No, it wasn't Santa Claus. I got a fair look at the driver the second time he cruised by. It could have been Buck Younger."

Barbara and Regina exchanged puzzled glances. The name meant nothing to them.

"Your twenty-twenty is going back on you, pal," Greg scoffed. "Younger must be a thousand miles away from here by this time. A guy doesn't crash out of the brig and then hang around playing tag with the Shore Patrol."

"Younger is a Texan," Whit recalled, rubbing his chin. "Now that I think about it, the voice in the phone booth did have a pronounced drawl. "And," he added, "the person who phoned the Dodson's also had a drawl."

"Coincidence," declared Greg. Nevertheless, he seemed a bit disconcerted. "Look, Whit-Younger hated every second he spent in the Navy. Why should he hang around the water now, when he could be down in Waco rustling steers?"

Whit had no answer to that. He merely repeated that there were some coincidences that even Jonah's whale would have trouble swallowing.