“I guess I’ll go out on the beach and have my smoke there,” he said as he took his hat from the peg on which he had hung it on entering the cabin.
“You’re not going back to the tavern, John?” said his wife in alarm.
“No, I’ve quit the tavern for to-night. I’ll just go out on the beach and have my smoke there. I won’t be gone very long.”
When Trafton had descended from the cliff to the beach he took the direction of the hermit’s cave.
Of course he had been in that direction a good many times, but then there was nothing on his mind and he had not taken particular notice of the entrance or its surroundings.
It was a calm, pleasant moonlight night and objects were visible for a considerable distance. Trafton walked on till he stood at the foot of the cliff containing the cave. There was the rude ladder leading to the entrance. It was short. It could be scaled in a few seconds, and the box or chest of gold, in whose existence Trafton had a thorough belief, could be found. But caution must be used. Possibly the hermit might be at home, and if he were, he would, of course, be awake at that hour. Besides, the cave was dark and he had no light.
“When I come I will bring matches and a candle,” thought the fisherman. “I can’t find the gold unless I can see my way. What a fool this hermit must be to stay in such a place when with his money he could live handsomely in the city! But I don’t find fault with him for that. It’s so much the better for me.”
He turned his eyes toward the sea, and by the light of the moon he saw the hermit’s slender skiff approaching. The old man was plainly visible, with his long gray hair floating over his shoulders as he bent to the oars.
“He mustn’t see me,” muttered the fisherman. “I had better go home.”