"Well, I did find some bits of paper, but I couldn't read writin'."
"Oh, what did you do with them?" I insisted, quivering with excitement.
"You won't tell the cap'n?"
"No, never."
"You'll give 'em back to me?"
"Yes, yes—of course."
"Here they be," he said, opening his shirt, and showing a little bag hung round his neck like an amulet. He took out a little wad of brown paper, and gave it jealously into my hand.
"I will give it back to you to-night," I said with the solemnity of an oath, and carried it to my room.
It proved to be a short and fragmentary account of the sufferings which the "missus" had endured in the middle room, written in pencil on coarse wrapping-paper, and bearing marks of trembling hands and frequent tears. I thought I might copy the papers without breaking faith with Pedro. The outside paper bore these words:
"Whoever finds this is besought for pity's sake, by its most unhappy writer, to send it as soon as possible to Mrs. Jane Atwood of Davidsville, Connecticut, United States of America."