It was the time for dreaming. His head on his hand, Bob drifted far from the reality of day. Anclote Key drifted with him into the shadowy world of romance. The Spaniards of old were again sailing the seas before him and where he now lay, the red men, who had been dazed by the sheen of knightly De Soto’s armor, might have met to stay the approach of the invaders of the new world.
Then later days came—days of West Indian marauding at sea, wherein turbanned cut-throats ravaged the Spanish Main for slaves and colonial merchandize and killed men too for the pleasure of killing. In such times, Jerry Blossom’s mythical outlaw might have lived, some West Indian of color—even with Jerry’s big sword. Such had sailed and slain and robbed in plenty, but they had passed like many of Bob’s loved romances, leaving behind them only tales of blood letting and buried treasure.
“Buried treasure!” As Bob’s wandering thoughts came upon those magic words, he thought of Jerry. In such a spot as this, the fabricating Jerry might well have located his invented tale of the Black Pirate and his treasure. Bob arose, and, in the new moonlight, again examined the shadowed trees, the rocky inlet at their feet and the drifting sand behind them.
If there was ever a spot made to lure on the treasure seeking negroes of the gulf coast, this was one. “Perhaps,” thought Bob. Then he stopped and scratched his head. A swell of the sea rushed into the inlet and broke with a swish, like harsh whispers. Bob’s face lit up with a sudden idea. Despite the lonesome surroundings, he even smiled. For a few moments, he paced the ground between the trees and round about and then, as if moved by an eager impulse, he set off on a run for the camp.
Tom and Mac were debating whether they should prepare another meal when Bob, full of his new idea, burst upon them. So keen was Bob’s interest in his project that eating talk was put aside. Then, to the great amusement of the other boys, Bob related how Jerry had paid for his passage to the island with a fabricated story of hidden treasure. Also, he told how Jerry had weakened in his story, and sought to escape his recent compact with Bob by explaining that he had lost the record written on the orders of the “Ole Black Pirate wif de big sword.”
Bob’s project was to turn the tables on Jerry, have some innocent fun at the colored boy’s expense, and, in a measure at least, lessen his proclivity for telling falsehoods. As he explained his plans, Tom and Mac chuckled with laughter. Mac in turn added some ideas that pleased the other boys. Withdrawing into the tent, with the aid of a candle, the first step in the conspiracy was taken.
When the plan had been well worked out, the boys took a long stroll on the moonlit shore, had a lively contest as to who could find and dump into the sea the most jelly fish, and finally, the air growing a little cool, they found it ten o’clock and that each was hungry.
“It’s no use to wait for Captain Joe,” explained Mac. “They may be here at one o’clock and they may not get in before daylight. Besides, they have plenty to eat and a brazier to cook it on. We’ll eat something and turn in.”
Hauling the prearranged signal lights up on the palmetto that Mac had stripped, the cook fire was replenished and Mac tried his skill on some refreshments. To the surprise of the other boys, Mac climbed down the little ravine slope and returned, dragging a coffee sack that had been buried in the sand. Bob and Tom saw a heap of fine fat oysters gathered by Mac in his idle hours from a bank just off Great Oak Point.
When Mac announced supper, the main dish was the bivalves. He roasted them in the coals, then cracking open three dozen of them, dropped a bit of butter and a little lemon juice in each.