“Gentlemen!” he protested, “I cannot help it, I really cannot! I swear to you by all the inhabitants of Tartæus that if I knew what to do I should do it with all possible celerity. But what——”
“I don’t believe there’s any treasure there,” growled Texas. “It’s all a fake.”
“That’s what I say, too, b’gee!” cried Dewey. “I just believe the Parson wanted to show us he knew how to dig graves. I wish I were asleep in my tent! Reminds me of a story I once heard, b’gee——”
“Don’t tell us any stories,” exclaimed Mark with feigned anger. “The Parson has told us enough for one night. This is outrageous.”
The poor Parson had sunk into a chair in exhaustion and resignation. Evidently there was no more fun to be gotten out of him, Mark thought, and was about to propose returning to camp, when suddenly another idea flashed across him.
“Jove!” he exclaimed, excitedly. “I didn’t think of that!”
The Parson sprang up again with a sudden renewal of interest and life.
“What is it?” he cried. “What is it?”
“I’ve got an idea!” shouted Mark. “Ye gods! Why didn’t I think of that before. I know why we haven’t found the treasure!”
The Parson’s excitement was genuine; the others joined in with his exclamations to keep up the effect.