All of which sank deep into their souls.
“It’s an old French coin,” said Bruce at length. “Where did you get it?
Did you find it yourself?”
Captain Corbet made no reply, but only held up his mineral rod, and
solemnly tapped it.
“Did you find it with that?” asked Bart.
The captain nodded with mysterious and impressive emphasis.
“Where?”
“Mind, now, it’s a secret.”
“Of course.”
“Wal,” said Captain Corbet slowly, “it’s a very serous ondertakin; an ef
it wan’t for the babby, an me hopin to leave him a fortin, I wouldn’t be
consarned in it. Any how, you see, as I was tell-in, I ben sarchin; an
not long before we sailed I was out one day with the mineral rod, an
it pinted--it pinted--it did--in one spot. It’s an ole French cellar.
Thar’s a pot of gold buried thar, boys--that I know. The mineral rod
turned down hard.”
“And did you dig there?” asked Bart, anxiously. “Did you try it?”
Captain Corbet shook his head.
“I hadn’t a shovel. Besides, I was afeard I might be seen. Then, agin, I
wanted help.”
“But didn’t you find this coin there?”
Captain Corbet again shook his head.
“No,” said he. “I found that thar kine in another cellar; but in that
cellar the rod didn’t railly _pint_. So I didn’t dig. I went on a
sarchin till I found one whar it did pint. It shows how things air.
Thar’s money--thar’s other kines a buried in the ground. Now I tell
you what. Let’s be pardners, an go an dig up that thar pot of gold.
’Tain’t at all in my line. ’Tain’t everybody that I’d tell. But
you’ve got my confidence; an I trust on you. Besides, you’ve got luck.
No,” continued the captain in a dreamy and somewhat mournful tone,
“’tain’t in my line for me, at my age to go huntin arter buried
treasure; but then that babby! Every look, every cry, every crow, that’s
given by that bee-lessed offsprin, tetches my heart’s core; an I pine
to be a de win somethin for him--to smooth the way for his infant feet,
when poor old Corbet’s gone. For I can’t last long. Yes--yes--I must do
it for the babby.”
Every word that Captain Corbet uttered, except, perhaps, his remarks
about the “babby,” only added to the kindling excitement of the boys.
A mineral rod! a buried treasure! What could be more overpowering than
such a thought! In an instant the camp in the woods seemed to lose all
its attractions in their eyes. To play at camping out--to humor the
pretence of being bandits--was nothing, compared with the glorious
reality of actually digging in the ground, under the guidance of a real
mineral rod, for a buried pot of gold; yet it ought to be explained,
that, to these boys, it was not so much the value of any possible
treasure that might be buried and exhumed which excited them, as the
idea of the enterprise itself--an enterprise which was so full of all
the elements of romantic yet mysterious adventure. How tremendous was
the secret which had thus been intrusted to them! How impressive was the
sight of that mineral rod! How overpowering was the thought of a pot of
gold, buried long ago by some fugitive Frenchman! How convincing was the
sight of that copper coin! And, finally, how very appropriate was such
an enterprise as this to their own secret society of the “B. O. W. C.”!
It was an enterprise full of solemnity and mystery; beset with unknown
peril; surrounded with secrecy and awe; a deed to be attempted in
darkness and in silence; an undertaking which would supply the “B. O. W.
C.” with that for which they had pined so long--a purpose.
“But _is_ there any money buried?” asked Phil.
“Money buried?” said Bart. “Of course, and lots of it. When the French
Acadians were banished, they couldn’t take their money away. They must
have left behind all that they had. And they had lots of it. Haven’t you
read all about ‘Benedict Bellefontaine, the wealthiest farmer of Grand
Pré? Of course you have. Well, if he was the wealthiest, others were
wealthy. That stands to reason. And if so, what did they do with their
wealth? Where did they keep their money? They hadn’t any banks. They
couldn’t buy stock, and all that sort of thing. What did they do with
it, then? What? Why, they buried it, of course. That’s the way all
half-civilized people manage. That’s what the Hindoos do, and the
Persians, and the Chinese. People call it ‘hoarding.’ They say there’s
enough gold and silver buried in the earth in India and China to pay olf
the national debt; and I believe there’s enough money buried about here
by the old Acadians to buy up all the farms of Grand Pré.”
Bart spoke earnestly, and in a tone of deep conviction which was shared
by all the others. The copper coin and the mineral rod had done
their work. They lost all taste for the camp, and its pool, and its
overarching trees, and its seclusion, and were now eager to be off with
Captain Corbet. Before this new enterprise even the greatest of their
recent adventures dwindled into insignificance. Captain Corbet, with
his magic wand, stood before them, inviting them to greater and grander
exploits.
A long conversation followed, and Captain Corbet began to think that the
pot of gold was already invested. The boys took his mineral rod,
which he did not give up until he had been for a long time coaxed and
entreated they passed it from hand to hand; each one closely inspected
it, and balanced it on his finger so as to test the mode in which it
worked; each one asked him innumerable questions about it, and gave it a
long and solemn trial.
“But where is the place?” asked Bart. “Is it very far from here?”
Captain Corbet shook his head.
“’Tain’t very far off,” said he. “I’ll show you.”
“Which way?” asked Tom.
The captain waved his rod in the direction of the Academy.
“What! That way?” asked Bart. “Are the cellars there?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t mean those. What! Just behind the Academy?”
“Yes.”
“It’s the ‘Old French Orchard,’ then,” cried Bart--“the ‘Old French
Orchard.’ The only cellars in that direction are under the old French
apple trees, on the top of the hill. Is that the place you mean,
captain?”
“That’s the indentical individool spot,” said Captain Corbet.
“The ‘Old French Orchard’!” exclaimed the other boys in surprise; for
they had expected to be taken to some more remote and very different
place.
“Wal,” said Captain Corbet, “that thar place’s a very pecooliar place.
You see thar’s a lot o’ cellars jest thar, an then the ole apple
trees--they’re somethin. The ole Frenchman, that lived up thar, must hev
ben rich.”
“The fact is,” exclaimed Bart, “Captain Corbet’s right. The Frenchman
that lived on that place must have been rich. For my part, I believe
that he was no other than ‘Benedict Bellefontaine, the wealthiest farmer
in Grand Pré.’ He buried all his money there, no doubt. This is one of
his French sous. Come along, boys; we’ll find that pot of gold.”
And with these words they all set out along with Captain Corbet for the
“Old French Orchard.”