“You see it’s got stake and pie on it,” Brent said.
“You make me tired!” the kid fairly yelled. “That paper shows where buried treasure is hidden.”
Brent said, “Well then, that scarecrow must have been a pirate in his younger days. He had an evil past and I’m glad I killed him.”
“You seem to think it’s a joke,” I said; “but it tells where there’s buried treasure, that’s one sure thing. You can’t make anything else out of it—can you?”
Brent said, “Buried treasure’s good enough for me—gold or stakes or pies, I don’t care. I’d like to dig up a few buckwheat cakes just now.”
“Do you know what you are? Do you know what you are?” the kid began shouting. “You’re a Philippine—that’s what you are!”
I said, “You mean a philistine—that’s a person that makes fun of things and doesn’t believe anything.”
Brent said, “The only time I ever went after buried treasure I was foiled by the boy scouts. Never again. They wouldn’t chop down a tree under which the treasure was buried because they loved trees.”
“This isn’t under a tree,” Pee-wee said; “it’s in a cove—on the end of a line due north. That’s different. That’s always the kind of a place wkere treasure is—in a cove. You can tell by the names that there’s treasure there—Snake Creek and Skeleton Cove and lines due north and willows and everything. It says treasure, doesn’t it? What more do you want?”
“Only where’s the place?” Brent said.