XIX.
Complaints of a disappointed Savant.—The humble Confession of Pat.—A buried Treasure, and a great Search after it by Torchlight’.
"P AT,” said Mr. Long, kindly, “do you think you will be able to start to-night?”
“To-night, sir?” said Pat, dolefully. “Yes, the recess is over. Our time is up, and we must all be back to-morrow. We ought to have been there Saturday night. Do you think you can come?”
“I suppose I’ll have to, sir.”
“If you’re too weak, or if it pains you to walk, we can carry you down, you know.”
“What time are ye afther lavin’ at, sir?”
“About one o’clock.”
“O, thin, surely I’ll be betther by that time,” said Pat. “I’ll get a wink of sleep, and wake up meself again.”.
“Do so, Pat. Is there anything I could get you?”
“No, sir, thank ye kindly. I don’t know of anything.”
Yes, they had to go back, for their time was up; yet Mr. Long was in despair, not knowing what to do about the minerals. He was confident that they were somewhere—but where? No one knew, and he couldn’t imagine.
“It’s too bad,” he cried, as his indignation grew irrepressible. “It’s too bad. Our expedition has been ill organized. I don’t blame anybody, but we’ve certainly had very bad luck. With only a week we have wasted or lost every day but one. Last Monday we were kept all day and all night at the wharf.”
“Wal, Mr. Long,” said Captain Corbet, “I s’pose you’re kind o’ blamin’ me; but what could I do? Ef a man has a babby, mustn’t he nuss it?”
“No, he musn’t,” said Mr. Long; “he must make his wife attend to household matters, and keep his engagements.”
Captain Corbet stared with a look of horror and astonishment at Mr. Long.
“Wal, sir,” he said, with modest firmness, “in my humble opinion, sir, a babby is a babby, an’ flesh an’ blood is flesh an’ blood; an’ I don’t care who says they ain’t. Ef you’d see that there babby, sir,” he continued, warming up in a glow of fond parental feeling,—“ef you’d a-seen that there babby, as I’ve seen him,—a crowin’, an’ a pullin’ of my har, an’ a sayin’, Ga-ga-ga,—‘you’d—
“Mr. Simmons,” said Mr. Long, suddenly, “have you hunted for the stones?”
“O, yes, everywhere.”
“And did you find nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“There it is,” resumed Mr. Long. “A whole week worse than lost. We lost Monday. We started Tuesday, and sailed nearly all day. We had about two hours’ work, and then the boat went adrift. All Wednesday wo were wandering about the bay. Thursday came, and we didn’t find the boys till the day was well gone, and then stopping at O’Rafferty’s and coming here took up the remainder of the time.”
“Well, we had Friday to ourselves,” said Mr. Simmons, with a pleasant smile. He was an amiable man, and always looked on the bright side of things.
“Yes, we had,” said Mr. Long, “but unfortunately we accomplished nothing. We had a long journey, and came back empty-handed.”
“At any rate, we had the time.”
“But that time was lost.”
“O, well,” said Mr. Simmons, “it was one of those days which everybody must expect to have. We tried hard, but were unsuccessful. I don’t, by any means, call such a day lost. We gave ourselves up thoroughly to science.”
“Well, call it a well-spent day,” said Mr. Long, “and what of it? We will count it in; but after that—what? Saturday came, and we had to go after the boys again; now our time’s up, and to-night we must go back again. We have had a week; and out of it we have been able to spend, at the very utmost, only one day and two hours. Well. I don’t know how it strikes you, but I call it hard.”
“It would, indeed, have been hard if things had turned out as we feared,” said Mr. Simmons.
“O, of course I feel all that. I am only lamenting that these accidents should have happened, and that, when we came for a certain purpose, we should have been unable to carry it out. And see how things have gone on. We are out of provisions, and have to lay in a stock of meal, and molasses, and pork.”
“I’m sure, meal makes very good food,” said Mr. Simmons. “Hot corn-cake is rather a delicacy, and molasses is very good to eat with it.”
“After all, I don’t care anything about these things,” continued Mr. Long. “What I do care about is the loss of the minerals.”
“O, they’re not lost.”
“Yes, they are. No one knows anything about them. No one has seen them. No one can find them. They’re lost, Mr. Simmons, beyond the possibility of redemption.”
“O, I hope not.”
“Well, I’m going to make a final search. Captain Pratt has asked every man, woman, and child in the place, but no one knows anything about them.. I’m now going to question every one over again. I’ve asked Captain Corbet already. He knows nothing. Captain Corbet, where’s the mate?”
“Sound asleep in the barn, sir.”
“Then I’ll go out and ask him.”
Captain Corbet went out with him, and after much trouble they roused the sleeper, who, however, could tell them nothing whatever about the stones.
Then Mr. Long asked all the boys in succession. He had asked them once before, but he was determined to try it again. There was no result. No. one knew anything about it. At last, all had been examined but Pat. Mr. Long felt sorry for him, and would have left him untroubled; but his intense desire to investigate thoroughly was too strong, and’ so he resolved to ask him.
Pat was trying to get some sleep, and with very little success. Mr. Long asked him kindly about his feelings, and spoke cheerfully to him for a few moments. At length he asked him,—
“Pat, I had two baskets of specimens, and they’ve been lost. Do you know anything about them?”
“Two baskets of what, sir?”
“Specimens.”
“Spicimins, sir?”
“Yes.”
“What are spicimins, sir?”
“Why, mineralogical specimens. Minerals, you know.”
“Minerals? Sorra a one o’ me knows what that same is,’ sir. I never saw one in my life.”
“Never saw a mineral? Nonsense! What we were gathering on the island—”
“Gatherin’? Was it minerals, then?” said Pat. “Is it anythin’ like o’—like shrimps, sir?”
Mr. Long laughed. He knew Pat’s wonderful ignorance about some things, but he was hardly prepared for this. As for Pat, the poor fellow found he had made a mistake, and colored violently from shame and vexation.
“Do you really mean to say that you don’t know what minerals are?” asked Mr. Long.
“Sorra a bit of it thin, sir.”
“Well, they look like little stones. Didn’t you see us breaking little pieces from the rocks?”
“I didn’t notice, sir.”
“That’s no way to do, Pat. You ought to keep your eyes open, or you’ll never learn anything.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, then, these minerals looked like common little stones. They were in two baskets. Each one was carefully wrapped in paper. Now those two baskets of stones are missing, and I can’t find out anything about them. I want you to try and remember if you’ve seen anything of that kind, or if you’ve seen any little bits of paper that may have been around them. Do you understand? Little stones, you know.”
And Mr. Long smiled encouragingly, so to give Pat a chance to collect his thoughts.
“Little stones?” faltered Pat, as there flashed over him an awful suspicion that he had done an irreparable mischief to somebody, and to Mr. Long in particular. “Little stones, sir?”
“Yes, Pat, little stones. Dirty little stones. You might have seen them, and would suppose that many of them were worthless, unless they were wrapped in paper and carefully packed.”
“Dirty little stones, sir?” said Pat, in an imbecile way.
“Yes,” said Mr. Long.
“And aich one wrapped in paper, sir?” said Pat, whose voice died away into a mournful wail, while he cast an imploring glance at Mr. Long.
“Yes..Tell me,” cried Mr. Long, “have you seen them?”
“I have, sir,” said Pat, dolefully.
“When? where? Where are they now? Where did you put them?”
“I—I—” He hesitated.
“Quick! It’s late. I want to get them. You brought them to the house, I suppose; or did you put them on board of the vessel?”
“I—I—”
“Well, why don’t you tell me what you did with them?”
“O, sir, it’s heart-broken I am this minute, sir! It’s fairly dead wid grafe I am, sir! You’ll niver forgive me! an’ I’m afraid to tell you, sir.”
“What? What’s all this? What have you been doing? What is it?” said Mr. Long, sternly.
“No, sir, I thought it was a trick, sir, that the boys played on me, sir; and I pitched them over the mud into the bank, sir.”
“You what!” cried Mr. Long, in an awful voice. Hereupon Pat, with many sighs and tears, and entreaties for pardon, told him all. Mr. Long heard him through without a word. Then he asked minutely about the spot where they had been thrown. After this he rushed from the house down to the point. The tide was down below that place, leaving the mud flat uncovered. The sun was just setting. Mr. Long stared wildly about.
There was not a trace of a Single specimen; for the heavy stones had sunk in, and the soft ooze and slimy mud, closing over them, had shut them from sight.
Mr. Long looked around in despair. He had hoped that he might recover some of them, but was not prepared to see all traces of them obliterated so completely. Besides, to add to his disappointment, the sun set before he had begun anything like a search; and the shadows of evening came on rapidly. What was he to do? Could he thus give up the results of his expedition, and consent to lose those precious specimens for which he had done so much? The thought was intolerable. He would go back and interrogate Pat afresh. It was possible that Pat had directed him to the wrong place. It was scarcely possible that every stone could have vanished so completely, if this were really the place where Pat had thrown them.
Such were Mr. Long’s thoughts and hopes, under the stimulus of which he at length retreated from the bank and returned to the house. Thus far he had kept Pat’s performance a secret, out of consideration for Pat himself; for he was not willing that so glaring a case of dense and utter ignorance should be made public. But now he was compelled to tell it to all of them, so as to get their assistance in the search; so, after once more questioning Pat, and getting from him fresh particulars about the place where he had thrown the stones, and finding, to his dismay, that it was no other than the very place where he had been, he went to summon the rest’ of the boys.
Gathering them together, Mr. Long began to unfold to them the fate of the long sought for, but still missing, stones. As he began, his native generosity made him desirous of sparing poor Pat; but as he proceeded, the sense of his own wrongs overcame the dictates of generosity. He concealed nothing, he kept back nothing, he palliated nothing. All was made known. Finally, he implored the assistance of every one of them in finding the lost treasures.
Of course, after such an appeal, there was no chance for refusal; and so they at once prepared to follow him. Bart insisted on procuring torches, and his inventive genius readily suggested an excellent mode of obtaining light. This was by stripping the inflammable bark from the huge piles of birch firewood that lay near the house; and folding these up in compact scroll-like sticks. A large number of these were made; and with these, with lanterns, and with pine knots, the whole band followed Mr. Long to the bank. Here they took off their shoes and stockings, and prepared for their task.
The mud on the surface was very soft to the depth of several inches, and into this they sank; but sinking thus far, they found a hard clay bottom. Proceeding in this way, they all sought with earnest scrutiny for signs of the buried stones. For some time nothing could be found. At last, with a cry of delight, Bogud plunged his hand into the mud, and drew out something, with which he instantly hurried to Mr. Long.
“Here’s one of them!” said he.
He held out a lump, at which Mr. Long and all the rest eagerly looked. It seemed more like a small lump of mud or clay than anything else.
So they all said.
“Pooh!” said they; “a little lump of clay.”
“It’s not clay,” said Bogud; “it’s the amethyst. I know it by the way it feels. It’s covered with mud, though, and ought to be washed immediately.”
Saying this, he rubbed the clinging mud with his fingers, disclosing at last something with an oval surface and a dirty-gray color.
“It’s the amethyst,” repeated Bogud, triumphantly. “I know it by the oval back. I picked the amethyst myself. Wait till I get the rest of the mud off. See here!—but—what—hallo!”
His confident tones ceased, and changed to an exclamation of doubt, then disgust. The boys had crowded around to see the exhumed treasure, and to catch the secret of Bogud’s luck. As he held it forth and wiped off the last lump of mud that adhered to its edge, it stood revealed to all.
“A clam! a clam! a clam!” was the instantaneous shout, followed by a peal of laughter.
In fact, so it proved. It was a clam-shell filled with mud which Bogud had drawn forth so triumphantly.
After this they sought for some time longer. It was a striking scene. The boys without shoes, with their trousers drawn up above the knee, with their torches flashing through the shades of evening, as they were waved overhead, with the flakes which fell every instant from the torches into the mud, with their laughter, and noise, and jesting,—all formed a scene in the highest degree wild and picturesque.
But the search was useless. Perhaps the finding of the clam disheartened them; perhaps it was really not possible to find what they sought. At any rate, after half an hour, even Mr. Long himself despaired, and called off all the boys to return to the house.’