“She paid off in Jamaica,” answered Dawkins. “And I come home in the Gentle Susan, merchant ship. The other two, Ratsey and Magnes, as I was speaking of, they died on the v’yage.”
“Now, perhaps you can guess, Mr Pomfrett,” Gamaliel cut in, “why I was anxious to show this singular find to your good uncle. We all know there’s treasure scattered up and down the South American coasts—well, it seemed to me, here was a rare chance to pick some up. And why not your uncle, as well as another? Nothing in it, perhaps, but still, a chance. What do you think, Mr Pomfrett?”
“I should think that after twenty-two years there’d be mighty little left.”
Mr Gamaliel appeared to consider this proposition as something strikingly novel. “Dear me,” said he. “Well, I expect you’re right, sir. But I’ve been thinking over the matter and putting two and two together, as you may say, until I half thought there might be something in it after all. Captain Grammont and Captain de Graaf was brother-buccaneers—blood-brothers sworn. That’s history. Now, after taking Campeachy in Yucatan together, in 1686—same date, see you, as the writing—Grammont put to sea and never came back any more. And somewhere about that time, Captain de Graaf entered the service of the French government and helped to put down piracy—and none better for the job, I should reckon. That’s history, too. Well, I take it that after Grammont took Merida, as the writing says, and left that there message for de Graaf, he was cast away with all hands. For it’s history, likewise, that he was never heard of any more. He didn’t know, you see, when he wrote that letter, as how de Graaf had turned his coat. Which was why de Graaf never fetched up at the port o’ call on Cozumel Island, and so never got the letter. Consequently——” He paused. Dawkins was regarding him, I thought, with a certain admiration.
“You mean,” said Pomfrett, “that the silver’s there now?”
“I put it to you, is it likely to be found without the clue? I’ll wager a piece of eight to a penny it wouldn’t,” returned Gamaliel.
“Spoken like a printed book, Hookey, strike me dumb if it ain’t,” observed Mr Dawkins. “That’s the way of it, sure enough. The plunder’s there, I’ll warrant. On’y, where’s the ship to carry it away?”
“The ship? Ah, well, that’s another p’int altogether,” said Hookey Gamaliel, with a cunning grin. “At any rate, Mr Pomfrett, you’ll have something to tell your uncle. A little story and a relic of the old buccaneers, no less. ’Tis singular how things do fall out; but when a man’s been down to the sea in ships, as I have, why, he ceases to marvel at anything. There’s wondrous things in the deep.”
He was running on with his glib Jew’s tongue, when Pomfrett rose to go.
“A little sitting at the feet of Gamaliel is enough,” said he, when we were out in the foggy dark of the alley. “What a yarn, eh? Do you believe it? I’ve half a mind to. There’s something queer about Mr Dawkins; do you think he’s a pirate himself? I tell you what, come round to the back, and we’ll have another look at ’em without their knowing.”