“Why, the front part of the ship, Dave Gibson; you don’t know anything. I say, what is that cove doin’?”
“He’s buryin’ something,” replied Dave.
“Buryin’ somethin’!” murmured Tom, raising himself on his elbows to get a better view. “By gosh it must be treasure out of a plundered ship. It is too, a whole barrel of it! No, he ain’t buryin’ it; he’s just throwin’ bushes an’ leaves over it. By gosh!” he continued, breathlessly, “we’ve struck it rich.”
“How?” asked Dave. “How have we struck it?”
“Never mind,” replied Tom; “you leave that to me. You’ve got no more sense nor a coot!”
The man’s movements were certainly mysterious. He had apparently selected the island for the concealment of something; that the cask which he was covering with leaves and branches contained doubloons Tom Pagdin was hardly justified in concluding in the circumstances.
After he had made his plant the stranger looked round the vicinity carefully, as if taking a mental note of the position, and went away noiselessly towards the upper end of the island.
The boys kept quiet for fully half an hour; then enjoining Dave to stay where he was, Tom crept out stealthily and followed in the direction the stranger had taken. Dave lay flattened out among the dry leaves and waited. His mate re-appeared at the edge of the clearing and beckoned him across.
“Who was it?” he asked, in a suppressed voice. “What’s in the cask?”
Tom was on his knees before the barrel smelling it.