"'TIS ENOUGH TO MAKE US BOTH RICH MEN."
"'Tis enough," cried out Parson Jones, "to make us both rich men as long as we live."
The burning summer sun, though sloping in the sky, beat down upon them as hot as fire; but neither of them noticed it. Neither did they notice hunger nor thirst nor fatigue, but sat there as though in a trance, with the bags of money piled up on the sand all around them, a great pile of money heaped upon the coat, and the open chest beside them. It was an hour of sundown before Parson Jones had begun fairly to examine the books and papers in the chest.
Of the three books, two were evidently log-books of the pirates who had been lying off the mouth of the Delaware Bay all this time. The other book was written in Spanish, and was evidently the log-book of some captured prize.
It was then, sitting there upon the sand, the good old gentleman reading in his high cracking voice, that they first learned from the bloody records in those two books who it was who had been lying inside the Cape all this time, and that it was the famous Captain Kidd. Every now and then the reverend gentleman would stop to exclaim, "Oh, the bloody wretch!" or, "Oh, the desperate, cruel villains!" and then would go on reading again a scrap here and a scrap there.
And all the while Tom Chist sat and listened, every now and then reaching out furtively and touching the heap of money still lying upon the coat.
One might be inclined to wonder why Captain Kidd had kept those bloody records. He had probably laid them away because they so incriminated many of the great people of the Colony of New York that, with the books in evidence, it would have been impossible to bring the pirate to justice without dragging a dozen or more fine rich gentlemen into the dock along with him. If he could have kept them in his own possession, they would doubtless have been a great weapon of defence to protect him from the gallows. Indeed, when Captain Kidd was finally brought to conviction and hung, he was not accused of his piracies, but of striking a mutinous seaman upon the head with a bucket and accidentally killing him. They did not dare to accuse him of his piracies. He was really hung because he was a pirate, and we know that it was the log-books that Tom Chist brought to New York that did the business for him; but what he was accused and convicted of was the killing of his own ship-carpenter with a bucket.
So Parson Jones, as he and Tom Chist sat there in the slanting light, skimmed through these terrible records of piracy, and Tom, with the pile of gold and silver money beside him, sat and listened to him.
What a spectacle, if any one had come upon them! But they were alone, with only the vast arch of sky above them and the wide white stretch of sand around them. The sun sank lower and lower, until it slanted so far in the sky that there was only time to glance through the other papers in the chest.