A man half-dressed, one boot on and carrying the other in his hand, came banging up the cabin steps.
"Bad cess to it! Begorra! Who tuk it--who tuk it?" he shouted.
This was Pat Stoodles. He seemed to have just awakened and to have learned of the astounding discovery of the hour. Making out Dave, who was a great favorite with him, Stoodles sprinted with his long limbs across the deck.
"Wirra, now, me broth of a boy, tell me it's false!" implored Pat.
"If you mean that we've got four boxes of junk aboard instead of gold," said Dave, "unfortunately it's true."
"Acushla! luk at that now," groaned Stoodles, throwing up his hands in sheer dismay. "And I was to have had a thousand dollars."
"More than that, Mr. Stoodles," answered Dave. "You have been one of our good loyal friends, and my father has often planned starting you in a nice paying business, had we reached San Francisco with the treasure."
"Hear that, now!" cried Stoodles. "Didn't I write that same thing to my brother in New York? Didn't I tell him I'd be home, loaded down with gold? I sent the letter from Mercury Island. And now I must write him again, telling him it was all a poor foolish old fellow's dream. All I've got is my losht dignity as king of the Windjammers."
Poor Stoodles tore his sparse hair and looked the picture of gloom and discontent.
"I'll write to my brother at once," he resumed. "Have you a postage stamp to spare, Dave?"