But why all this minute detail concerning one who is to disappear—if he had but known it!—before that howling night—
“Twas in ’52 she grounded,” said he, transferring something from his right cheek to his left. “Hang me on the Union Jack,” (that was a nautical expression by which Peeler added solemnity to his statement) “if there was not exactly one million Spanish doubloons on board.”
Sep whistled, but immediately checked himself, and sat down on the wind to hear the rest.
“Bust my buttons if mortal man knows where she lies!” continued Peeler, “save and except yours ’umbly. Stand by, my shaver, and cast your cock-eye on this bit of rag.”
And he produced from his pocket a greasy piece of parchment with a map upon it.
“There,” said he, laying his broad thumb on a red cross somewhere in the West Pacific, “there she lies—full of gold, my boy. Shiver my jury-masts if she don’t.”
The wind on which Sep was sitting lifted him to his feet, as he grasped the map and gazed with quivering excitement on the mysterious red mark.
He laughed sardonically, and the perspiration stood in beads on his brow. Then, pushing Peeler over the cliff, he put the map in his pocket, and walked on whistling in the night air to the cottage.