Bartlett—What d’ye know?
Nat—You’re going for something else.
Bartlett—What would that be?
Nat—I don’t know—exactly. Something—on that island.
Bartlett—What?
Nat—I don’t know. But I could guess a lot of things. [With sudden excitement.] Ambergris! That’s it! Is that it? It must be. That’s what you’ve been hunting for years.
Bartlett—Aye—and never found! [He gets to his feet with a forced burst of laughter.] Ambergris! Ye fool of a boy! Ye got that notion out o’ some fool book ye’ve been reading, didn’t ye? And I thought ye’d growed to be a man! [More and more wild in his forced scorn.] Ye’ll be tellin’ me next it’s buried treasure I be sailin’ after—pirates’ gold buried on that island—all in a chest—and a map to guide me with a cross marked on it where the gold is hid! And then they be ghosts guardin’ it, ben’t they—spirits o’ murdered men? They always be, in the books. [He laughs scornfully.]
Nat—[Gazing at him with fascinated eyes.] No, not that last. That’s silly—but I did think you might have found—
Bartlett—[Laughing again.] Treasure? Gold? [With forced sternness.] Nat, I be ashamed of ye. Ye’ve had schoolin’, and ye’ve been doin’ a man’s work in the world, and doin’ it well, and I’d hoped ye’d take my place here to home when I be away, and look after your Ma and Sue. But ye’ve owned up to bein’ little better nor a boy in short britches, dreamin’ o’ pirates’ gold that never was ’cept in books.
Nat—But you—you’re to blame. When you first came home you did nothing but talk mysteriously of how rich we’d all be when the schooner got back.