“‘No, he died two months ago,’ says the man, ‘an’ I was with him. He died o’ pneumony—was took werry sudden.’
“Nat’rally this news took the old man—I sh’d say yer father—all aback, as it were, an’ he inquired inter his brother’s death fully. Fin’ly the man drew out a big package—papers he said they was—wot Anson Tarr had given him ter be sure ter give ter the cap’n when he sh’d see him. Then the feller went.
“O’ course, the cap’n didn’t tell me wot the docyments was, but I reckoned by his actions, an’ some o’ the hints he let drop, that they was valible, an’ I—I got it inter my head that ’twas erbout money—er suthin’ o’ the kind—that your Uncle Anson knowed of.
“Wal, the Silver Swan, she left the Cape, ’n’ all went well till arter we touched at Rio an’ was homeward boun’. Then a gale struck us that stripped the brig o’ ev’ry stick o’ timber an’ every rag o’ sail, an’ druv her outer thet ’ere rock. There warn’t no hope for the ol’ brig an’ she began to go ter pieces to once, so we tried ter take to the boats.
“But the boats was smashed an’ the only ones left o’ the hull ship’s company was men Paulo Montez, and yer father, an’—an’ another feller. We built the raft and left the ol’ brig, just as she—er—slid off er th’ rock an’ sunk inter the sea. It—it mos’ broke yer father’s heart ter see the ol’ brig go down an’ I felt m’self, jest as though I’d lost er—er friend, er suthin!”
The sailor paused in his narrative and drew hard upon his pipe for a moment.
“Wal, you know by the papers how we floated around on that ’ere raf’ an’ how yer poor father was took. He give me these papers just afore he died, an’ made me promise ter git ’em ter you, ef I was saved. He said you’d understand ’em ter oncet, an’,” looking at Brandon keenly out of the corners of his eyes, “I didn’t know but ye knew something about it already.”
Brandon slowly shook his head.
“No,” he said; “I can’t for the life of me think what they could refer to.”
“No—no buried treasure, nor nothing of the kind?” suggested the man hesitatingly.