“No. It’s made of shingles, isn’t it? Seems so silly to try to have a story like that one about it.”
“Well, that wasn’t the original cabin, according to Tom’s story, but built on the same place where the old smuggler’s cabin stood. And somewhere around there his treasure is buried, under the cabin, in the cracks of some of the rocks and ledges, or maybe some tree has grown over the place. He was a terrible old fellow, a sort of retired pirate, I guess, and Tom said that the smuggler used to live along the Kennebec and knew that it would be a good place to hide his stores and treasures. So he built this cabin, the old one, I mean. He would be gone for months and then his old boat would come up the Kennebec in the night when the tide was coming this way from the sea. And he’d drag old sacks full of something from the boat to the cabin. He was so fierce looking that everybody was afraid of him and if any boat was on the river when he came along they’d get out of the way or hide somewhere till he had passed. Once somebody heard horrible groaning from his boat,—”
“O, Jack!” It was getting too vivid for June.
“One time some people with some officers went to see what there was in the cabin, while the old man was away. But they only found the bunks and some food and an old chest with clothes in it.”
“Perhaps he just had food in the sacks and ate it up while he stayed at the cabin,” suggested practical June.
“Yes. Perhaps he wasn’t a pirate. And perhaps he was,” said Jack. “You just listen now. This is what Tom told. One night in a rainstorm a boy that lived on a farm near the river came to shore in a canoe, because he couldn’t get home in the wind and bucking the tide. The waves were just dashing every way by the time he got into the Merrymeeting Bay, and pretty soon the canoe went plump, crash, bang, smash, right on the rocks near the cove. But of course the boy could swim and he kept up a minute or two, when he was carried back from the rocks by the water, and finally he crawled up on shore. It was in the days of Indians, and he was afraid of being found by some of them that were not friendly or had had too much fire-water, so he got among the bushes first. Then he saw a light in the cabin, shining through cracks, and crept up, real still, to see if he dared go in. There he saw the old pirate, or smuggler, whatever he was, taking jewelry out of the chest. It flashed and sparkled and the old man chuckled and chortled, as he ran the jewels through his fingers. They always do that in stories, you know,” and Jack laughed.
“This is a fine story,” said Jo, while Dot said, “O, I hope he didn’t kill the boy!” and snuggled closer to June.
“Then the boy made a little noise, accidentally, stepped on a stick or something, and the old man whisked the things into the chest, caught up his gun, looked to see if his long knife was at his belt and ran out. The boy was so scared that he scrambled up on a ledge and climbed a tree, while the wicked old pirate hunted around, and growled to himself, and said, ‘Nobuddy’d better come a-spyin’ on me! Nobuddy’d better come a-spyin’ on me! I’ll give his bones to the fishes!’”
Jack told this part of the story with relish, while June, Jo and Dot, with the rest of the little girls, kept big eyes on him and in imagination sat in the tree with the boy of long ago.
“Did he catch the boy?”