“Comin’ home, late, one night, bein’ becalmed in a sail boat—I see ’em. Loading chests o’ treasure in the moonlight! Bet you I never want to see ’em no more! No, suh!” Pomp’ gasped.
“And,” added Nelse to his servant’s tale, “next day after Pomp’ told me—he was near-’bout scared out o’ his clo’es—I took me a rifle an’ went onto that land ’side o’ the inlet, there—where you see that bit o’ rock under the mangrove—an’—an’—they had been some man there, it looked like he had been tryin’ to locate somethin’ and started to dig for it—but—he—won’t—never—dig—no mo’!”
The three chums shuddered in spite of themselves.
“Hurt?” asked Mr. Neale.
“Beyond hurtin’—” said Nelse solemnly. He refused an invitation to stay for supper, complied with Pomp’s pleading and tumbled into his boat.
“If I was you,” he said in farewell, “an’ had any idea o’ tryin’ for what I reckon may be hid on that strip o’ land—I’d up sail an’ away quick’s the wind ’ud take me!”
“Yes, sar!” mumbled Sam in the cabin.
“But whatever you do,” called Nelse, “if there is any spooks—doan’ try for to bother ’em none—they’s more to them ha’nts—” his word for ghosts “—than most folks knows, I reckon!”
“Well, you won’t get me there,” declared Tom.
The slow, idle evening gave them plenty of time to recount their feelings and to argue to and fro about ghosts, spooks, ha’nts, and buccaneers’ apparitions in particular. Sam, refusing to come forth even to cook supper, took no part. He crouched in a corner, muttering some charm or spell of protection taught him by Ma’am Sib, no doubt, till Cliff called, “Oh, Sam—shut up!”