“Now, s’posin’ the mate sends them papers to Brandon through the mail, ’r writes a letter erbout ’em—you’d orter know it, hadn’t ye? You’d orter see that letter, or them papers, an’ you’d jest drop me a line, an’ I c’d help ye get ’em, ’cause I know all erbout sich things, bein’ a sea farin’ man fur thirty year.”
Uncle Arad moistened his trembling lips before he could speak.
“But this is only s’posin’,” he said quaveringly.
“But, s’pose ’twas so! S’pose I seen them papers passed, an’ s’pose I heered Cap’n Tarr say with his own lips ther’ was ’nough suthin ’r other (I couldn’t ketch th’ word—gold, mebbe) there ter make a man fabulously rich?”
“Fabulously rich!” repeated Arad.
“That’s it; fabulously rich, is wot he said. An’ if it’s so, you orter to get the letters from the post office, an’ open every one of ’em, hadn’t ye?”
Uncle Arad nodded quickly.
“O course ye had; and if the letter or papers sh’d come from Caleb Wetherbee—thet’s the mate’s name; he’s in the ’orspital yet—you’d let me know, an’ then we’d see wot we sh’d see, eh?”
The sailor poked the old man familiarly in the ribs and slapped his own knee.
“That’s wot we’d do, shipmate,” he said. “Wot say ye? Ye’ll need me, fur I reckon wherever th’ money’s hid, ye’ll need a sailor ter go ’long with ye—er ter git it fur ye.”