IX
THE WAY OUT
“I’ve been thinking,” said Croyden, as they footed it across the Severn bridge, “that, if we knew the year in which the light-house was erected, we could get the average encroachment of the sea every year, and, by a little figuring, arrive at where the point was in 1720. It would be approximate, of course, but it would give us a start—something more definite than we have now. For all we know Parmenter’s treasure may be a hundred yards out in the Bay.”
Macloud nodded. “And if we don’t find the date, here,” he added, “we can go to Washington and get it from the Navy Department. An inquiry from Senator Rickrose will bring what we want, instantly.”
“At the same time, why shouldn’t we get permission to camp on the Point for a few weeks?” Croyden suggested. “It would make it easy for us to dig and investigate, and fish and measure, in fact, do whatever we wished. Having a permit from the Department, would remove all suspicion.”
“Bully! We’re fond of the open—with a town convenient!” Macloud laughed. “I know Rickrose well, we can go down this afternoon and see him. He will be so astonished that we are not 136 seeking a political favor, he will go to the Secretary himself and make ours a personal request. Then we will get the necessary camp stuff, and be right on the job.”
They had passed the Experiment Station and the Rifle Range, and were rounding the shoal onto the Point, when the trotting of a rapidly approaching horse came to them from the rear.
“Suppose we conceal ourselves, and take a look,” suggested Macloud. “Here is a fine place.”
He pointed to some rocks and bushes that lined the roadway. The next instant, they had disappeared behind them.
A moment more, and the horse and buggy came into view. In it were two men—of medium size, dressed quietly, with nothing about them to attract attention, save that the driver had a hook-nose, and the other was bald, as the removal of his hat, an instant, showed.