Fonny Boy couldn't remember that, either. He drew on the low end of the harmonica, trying a little blues jamming, like his hero, Dan Aykroyd.

"Now, I know some of the watermen use compasses, " the dentist kept trying. "Possible there is a compass heading your father routinely uses when he comes out to check the crab pots?"

The words crab pot floated out of the barely moving bateau, then settled into the water and began to drift to the bottom, where a large collection of Callinectes (Greek for "beautiful swimmer") sapidus (Latin for "tasty") were enjoying the quiet and security of the crab sanctuary. Clustered together were the fugitives from the bucket, and one of them, an especially handsome jimmy with big blue claws and arms, decided to investigate the human voices and faint strains of a harmonica. He swam up through the murk, leaving his friends behind in a cloud of silt, and some twenty feet below the surface of the bay he spied the bottom of a bateau and heard voices again.

"Nah. He don't use neither compass. Don't need one, noways, " a young male said, and the crab recognized the voice as belonging to that skinny blond Islander who was always talking about pirate treasure when he was out potting in the dark early mornings.

"Hmmm. What about your post office box?" another voice asked, and the jimmy didn't recognize this one, but he sounded as if he was from the mainland.

Fonny Boy tried that number, but the padlock wasn't interested.

"A lucky number, maybe? Does your dad have a lucky number?"

The only luck-related number Fonny Boy could think of was thirteen, and the padlock wouldn't budge. He tried playing straight harp style and "Oh Susannah" was almost recognizable.

"What about a favorite food or drink that might have a number in it?" Dr. Faux was not going to give up. "Such as Heinz fifty-seven sauce, Seven-Up, or two-alarm chili?"

"My daddy, he likes the Seven-Up, " Fonny Boy said with a glimmer of hope. "He's right fond of it with Spanky's ice cream, drinks more'an it of anybody I ever seen. But the combination, it takes four numbers and seven is only one number. "

"What if you added the up part?"

Fonny Boy decided to stay in the middle of the harmonica and stick to blow notes.

"Is there a number that might mean up, Fonny Boy? Come on, think!"

"The compass, it ain't got neither up on it. Only north, south, east, and west, " Fonny Boy replied.

"Up could be north, now couldn't it?" Dr. Faux persisted. "You know how people say they're going up north to New York or down south to Florida. Try three-sixty. That's three numbers and is due north. So maybe he used seven and three-sixty for seven-up. "

The jimmy's fusiform body propelled itself quickly back down to the bottom, where he warned his frightened friends.

"There's seven of 'em up thar!" he exclaimed. "And they'se breaking the law by potting in the sanctutary and I'm of a mind to get 'em warranted!"

The jimmy assumed that the seven watermen up there in the bateau were a posse looking for the crabs and the trout, although the crabs hadn't seen the trout for quite some time. Or maybe the Seven-Up gang, as the jimmy began to think of them, were pirates the governor had promised immunity to if they would find the crabs and the trout and return them to the mansion in the bucket. Blue crabs were quite familiar with pirates and were neither impressed with nor afraid of them.

Pirates were too angry and drunk to bother chasing after crabs, and this had been true for hundreds of years. Nor was the life of any crustacean made a whit better by all of the old cannons, coins, and jewels that crabs routinely scuttled over on the bottom of the bay. Crabs frankly didn't give a damn about treasure.

But that blond Islander named Fonny Boy certainly did, the jimmy thought as he scuttled through billowing silt to a shelf in the bay floor, where the wreckage of a sloop appeared in the murk. The old wreck had been blasted with cannon fire and sank in a shoal, and over the centuries the current had nudged the broken vessel along the bottom of the bay until it had settled in its present location. The jimmy rooted around near a rusting anchor and seized a small piece of iron. He paddled furiously with his swimming legs and sculled back up to the bateau, climbed on the small outboard motor, and tossed the piece of iron up in the air. It landed in Fonny Boy's lap right when he was in the middle of practicing a fish face by sucking in his cheeks to play cleaner single notes on his harmonica.

"Why, I'll swagger!" Fonny Boy cried out in surprise. "Look!"

He studied the piece of iron and knew it was extremely old and very likely from a sunken ship.

"Treasure's nigh as peace falling from Heaven and it's for to tell there's a picaroon ship down thar!" he exclaimed in uncontrollable excitement as he realized that finally, after such a hard life, he had met his destiny. "We have to mark the spot or we likete lose it!"

The only way to mark the location was to drop a crab pot into the water, and minutes later, the fugitive crabs watched a wire cage descend through the depths and dangle well above the bottom, because the rope was too short. The jimmy crooked his funny mouth into a smile, certain what would happen next because the Islanders were so predictable. The Island boy's greed would excite him into poor judgment, and soon enough, the Seven-Up gang would be in jail.

Possum's scheme was going along well, too, as he cut up different colored T-shirts and sewed and glued the pieces into a pattern that was beginning to resemble a flag.

"See what I'm doing, girl?" Possum whispered to Pop-eye.

He smoothed the flag on the bed, and Popeye was startled by a grinning skull smoking a cigarette.

"We got us a NASCAR flag for the races, " Possum proudly whispered. "See, we hang it up at the pit where we pretend to be a pit crew and I'll make sure somebody look for the flag and come save us. Or if that don't work, maybe Smoke will like the flag so much, he'll be nicer to us, and when we escape to Tangerine Island, I'll find a way to sneak off with you and we'll run to the nearest fisherman's house. "

Possum dipped the needle in and out of the flag, sewing on letters that spelled Jolly Goodwrench.

"Then I'll give you back to Sup'intendent Hammer, and the police will forget all about me shooting at Moses Custer. Maybe I even get to come see you now and then. Maybe Sup'intendent Hammer give me a job babysitting you. What do you think?"

Popeye thought this was a wonderful idea. Possum continued to piece together the flag with the T-shirt scraps, needle and thread, and Super Glue. The result was not quite what he had intended, because he was realizing that the flag would be one-sided and would have to be mounted rather than displayed from a pole, antenna, or stick. Otherwise, he was pleased with the result, which was not recognizable as NASCAR or a Jolly Roger, but a hybrid of both.

Possum tacked the finished work up on the wall and sat on his bed imagining Smoke's reaction as Possum worried about going to the race on Saturday and wondered what plans and hopes might fly apart. Possum sure didn't want any more trouble. If only he could go back to his family's basement and wander the streets after dark again without any fear of being arrested. Possum had seen on the TV news that Moses was still in the hospital, and thank goodness, his condition was now stable. Possum's heart trembled as he recalled pointing the pistol at the poor man on the pavement and jerking the trigger.

He still didn't understand what had gotten into him, except that he was frightened of Smoke. Possum also knew that if he acted different from the other dogs or seemed to have a conscience, he was going to end up with a bullet in his head one of these days. Oh, how his momma would scream and cry if she heard on the news that Possum had been murdered, his body dumped somewhere along with the carcass of a little black-and-white dog. If only Ben Cartwright or Little Joe or Hoss could help him out. But in all the episodes of Bonanza that Possum had watched, he had never seen a black boy on the Ponderosa.