Hiram Beegle was right in his surmise that not many of the “potato marks,” as Bob called them, remained. There had been a little shower over Storm Mountain early that morning, and the raindrops, together with the tramping of feet about the cabin, had obliterated, for a great part, the strange impressions.
But Bob found a place, sheltered by the trunk of the tree which grew close to the cabin, where there was one mark plainly visible.
“And if that isn’t the impression of a jute bag, the kind that holds potatoes, I don’t know what is,” declared the young detective.
Hiram Beegle put on his spectacles and bent over to make a closer inspection. Long and earnestly he gazed at the mark.
“That’s been made by a bit of bagging,” he declared. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say the bag had potatoes in it, though.”
“No, it needn’t have had potatoes in,” agreed Bob. “But it was a bag and it had something heavy in. You could tell that more easily, before, by seeing the depth of the impressions. Chief Drayton would have it that your box was carried off in a sack and it was so heavy that the thief had to set it down every now and then.”
“Nonsense!” laughed the old sailor. “That box wasn’t at all heavy nor big, but it did contain a treasure. It had a map in that showed where old Hank had buried his share of the gold—his share and that which would have gone to Jolly Bill and Rod if they had done what was right. It’s partly my treasure, too, for I didn’t use up my share.”
“And haven’t you any idea where it is buried, even without reference to the map?” asked the lad.
“Nary an idea,” was the answer with a dubious shake of the head. “I don’t reckon I’ll ever lay my eyes on it now.”
“Oh, you may,” said Bob, cheerfully. “Of course I’m pretty young at this business, but——”