“Don’t mind me, fellows,” he said. “I guess I’m still a little shaken up from what I saw down there today in the cabin of that poor old hulk. The storm sort of brought it home to me. Well,” he added, striving to make his tone sound matter-of-fact, “suppose we talk over plans for rescuing the treasure. I’ll feel easier when we have it safe right here under our noses.”
What was that strange uneasiness that had taken possession of him? Even in the excitement of making plans and the jubilation of the boys he could not entirely shake it off.
Here they were alone on this island where in all probability no one else had set foot for many years. The adventure of this day had met with success beyond his wildest dreams. The treasure was there—was theirs. All they had to do was to take it. There was no earthly reason to feel uneasy and yet he was uneasy.
All during the long hours—and they sat up way into the night exulting—he was haunted by a sensation of impending evil. Thinking that he was overwrought by the day’s adventure, he tried to dismiss these thoughts but without very much success.
Long after his comrades were sleeping soundly he lay staring into the dark. Once he caught himself straining his ears to catch some fancied sound.
The storm had died down and the night, save for the low drumming of the waves on the beach, was so still that he could almost hear his heart beat.
What was he listening for, he asked himself. The night was breathless. He could have heard nothing. Then, calling himself all kinds of a fool he turned over and went to sleep.
He woke, struggling through a sea of unconsciousness, with the distinct feeling that an unseen presence was near him. Not fully awake, he sprang to his feet, revolver in hand.
Was it imagination that the figure of a man, vague and indistinct as the night itself, slipped from the cave? His vision was blurred with sleep. Impatiently he rubbed a hand across his eyes.
With a bound he was at the door of the cave—outside, straining his eyes in an effort to pierce the shadows.