“This part of the story can not be doubted. The county books contain records of the sale, and it’s written, plain as day, on the abstract. The man gave his name as Hendrickson.
“Legend has it that this Hendrickson was no one but Godfrey Jason, that he had sold and turned into cash a small part of the treasure, temporarily evaded his pursuers, and had bought the big manor house with the idea of living in luxury the rest of his life. Incidentally, he was accompanied by a Cuban wife.
“It seemed, however, that like most evil-doers, he got little good out of his treasure. He paid only a small amount down on the estate, and after a year or two let it go back to the original owners. He went away, but it doesn’t seem likely he took the treasure with him. At least he died wretchedly in poverty some months later, and had spent no large amount of money in between. The report of his death can be found in the records of the city of Tampa, in this state.
“Now all this is unquestionably a mixture of truth and fact. Unquestionably there is a vein of truth in it; and I don’t see but that most of it is fairly credible. But the rest of the yarn is simply laughable.
“I tell it only because it goes with the rest—not that I believe one word of it myself. After you hear what it is you’ll wonder I ever took the trouble to tell you that I disbelieved it. It’s just the sort of thing imaginative old niggers make up to tell their children. And of course—the niggers on the place believe every word of it.
“They say that this Jason—or Hendrickson—put a guard over his treasure. He was a deep-sea fisherman at one time, when he wasn’t a seaman, with considerable acquaintance with the various man-eating monsters of the deep. It is known that Hendrickson did some queer exploring and fishing along the rocky shores beyond the estate. What did the villainous old pirate do but catch some big octopus—or some other such terrible ocean creature—and transplanted him to the lagoon where he was said to have concealed the treasure.
“That’s all there is to it. The beast is supposed to be there yet, growing bigger and fiercer and more terrible year by year. An octopus is supposed to live indefinitely, you know. Once in awhile, the story goes, it creeps up on the rocky shore of the lagoon and grabs off a colored man. When any one searches around for the chest he’s apt to meet up with Mr. Monster! Sure proof of his existence, the niggers say, is that Mas’r Somebody or other, the son of one of the subsequent owners of the estate, also mysteriously disappeared and has never been heard of since. When the blacks lose one of their own number they seem to regard it as a mere matter of course—but when ‘one of de white folks’ is taken, it’s another matter! And of course, even to this day, you can’t get a colored man to go within two hundred yards of the lagoon at night, and they hate to approach it even in the daylight.
“The lagoon where the chest is supposed to be hidden is the one just outside my window, cut off from the sea by the natural rock wall you just saw. The big crags and rocks and crevices are supposed to conceal his ferociousness the sea-monster, growing bigger and hungrier and fiercer every day. The house that Jason—or Hendrickson—bought, neglected, and let return to the owners is the one you’re sitting in, right now.”