In the Frenchman’s _pot of gold!_”
The wailing notes of the tune rose up into the dark night, and the
tones, as they were dolefully droned out by the “B. O. W. C.,” died away
in the dim forest around.
Captain Corbet gave a long sigh as they ended. “Solemner and solemner!”
he slowly ejaculated. “I wish the biz was over.”
“Well,” said Bart, “the way to have it over is to begin as soon as
possible. But remember this, all of you: after the first stroke of spade
or pickaxe, not a word must be spoken--not a word--not one; no matter
what may happen; no matter how surprised, astonished, terrified,
horrified, mystified, or scarified we may be. Mum’s the word; any other
word will break the spell; and then, where are we? And you, Solomon,
mind the lights! Don’t you dare to let one of them go out: as you value
your life, keep them going. Above all, mind that tin kettle in the
corner; the wick is bad, and it’s flaring away at a tremendous rate. And
don’t let the baskets upset. Have you got your matches?”
“Ya--yasr,” said Solomon, whose teeth were now chattering again, and who
looked with utter horror at the row of lights which he was ordered to
watch.
“Will you take the pickaxe, captain?”
“Wal,” said Captain Corbet, in a faint voice, “I hardly know; perhaps
you’d better dig, an I’ll go over to the fence, and see that no one
comes.”
“Go over to the fence!” cried Bart. “What! go out through that row of
lights? and after our incantations? Why, Captain Corbet! Don’t you think
of anything of the kind. We are seven. It’s a mystic number. You must
stay with us.” Captain Corbet heaved a sigh.
“Wal,” said he, “I’ll take one of the spades.”
“I’ll take the pickaxe,” said Bruce. “Very well,” said Bart; “you
begin. Stir up the earth, and we’ll all dig. But after the first stroke,
remember--not one word!”
Bruce then seized the pickaxe with nervous energy, and raising it, he
hurled it into the ground. As it struck, Solomon shuddered, and clasped
his hands. Captain Corbet stepped back, and looked wildly around. Again
and again Bruce wielded the pickaxe, dashing it into the earth with
powerful blows, and then wrenching it so as to pry up the sods. The
others looked on in silence. At length he had loosened the earth all
about, and to a considerable depth. After this he stood back, and the
other boys went to work with their spades. Bruce waited for a little
time, and then, dropping the pickaxe, he seized a spade, and plunged it
into the ground, and rapidly threw up the soil, doing as much work as
any two of the others.
For some time they worked thus. The silence was profound, being only
broken by the clash of the spades against the stones, and the hard
breathing of the boys. At last they hod dug up all the earth that
had been loosened by Bruce, and the hard soil began to present an
insuperable barrier to the progress of the spades. Seeing this, Bruce
seized the pickaxe once more, and again hurled it with vigorous blows
into the ground, loosening the earth all around. At last, as he flung
it down with all his force, it struck against something which gave so
peculiar a sound that the boys all started, and caught one another’s
arms, and looked at one another in the dim moonlight, each trying to see
the face of the other. Bruce stopped for an instant, and then, swinging
the pickaxe again over his head, he dashed it down with all his force.
Again it struck that hard substance under ground, and again there was
that peculiar sound. It was a sound that could not be mistaken. It was
not such a sound as would be given by a stone, or by a stick of timber;
it was something very different. It was hard, ringing,--metallic! And as
that sound struck upon the ears of the “B. O. W. C.” there was but one
thought, a thought which came simultaneously to the minds of all--the
thought that Bruce’s pickaxe had reached the buried treasure. But the
pot of gold now became to their imaginations an iron chest filled with
coin, and it was against this iron chest that the pickaxe had struck,
and it was this iron chest which had given forth the sound.
Yet so schooled were they, so determined upon success, that even
the immensity of such a sensation could not make them forget their
self-imposed silence. Not one word was spoken. They felt, they thought,
but they did not speak.
Suddenly Bruce flung down the pickaxe, and seized his spade. At once
all the others rushed forward to join in the task. Bruce was first; his
spade was plunged deep into the loosened earth. Bight and left it was
flung. The spades of the others were plunged in also. All of them were
digging wildly and furiously, and panting heavily with their exertion
and their excitement. Each one had felt his spade strike and grate
against that hard metallic substance which the pickaxe had struck, and
which they now fully believed to be the pot of gold. Each one was in
the full swing of eager expectation, when suddenly there came an awful
interruption.
They might have been digging five minutes, or an hour; they could never
tell exactly. Afterwards, when they talked it over, and compared one
another’s impressions, they could not come to any decision, for all
idea of time had been lost. Engaged in their work, they took no note of
minutes or hours. But while they were working Captain Corbet had stood
aloof; he held a spade in his listless hands, but he did not use it. He
was looking on nervously, and with a pale face, and his thoughts were
such as cannot be described. Solomon also stood, with trembling frame
and chattering teeth, a prey to superstitious terror. To Solomon had
been committed the care of the lights; yet he did not dare to venture
near them. For that matter, he did not dare even look at them. His gaze
was fixed on the boys, while at times his eyes would roll fearfully over
the dark outline of those dim and sombre woods whose shadows lowered
gloomily before him.
Such, then, was the situation,--the boys busy and excited; Captain
Corbet nervous, and idle, and fearful; Solomon trembling from head to
foot, and overcome with a thousand wild and superstitious fancies,--when
suddenly, close beside them, outside of the row of lights, just as
their spades struck the metallic substance before mentioned,--suddenly,
instantaneously, and without the slightest warning, there arose a sharp,
a fearful, a terrible uproar; something midway between a shriek and a
peal of thunder; a roar, in fact, so hideous, so wild, so unparalleled
in its horrid accompaniments, that it shook the boldest heart in that
small but bold company. It rose on high; it seemed to fill all the air;
and its awful echoes prolonged themselves afar through the darkness of
the midnight scene.
The boys started back from the hole; their spades dropped from their
hands. They saw about half of the lights extinguished, and amid the
gloom they could perceive two figures rushing in mad haste away from the
spot. A panic seized upon them. Before a panic the stoutest heart is
as weak as water. Even the “B. O. W. C.” yielded to its influence. They
shrank back, they retreated, they passed the line of flickering lights.
They fled!
Away, away! back from this terrible place, back towards the Academy. So
fled the “B. O. W. C.”
First of all the fugitives was Solomon.
He had been nearly frightened out of his wits long before. These
proceedings, half in joke, had been no joke to him. In spite of Bart’s
assurances he had stood a trembling spectator, neglectful of his duty.
The wind had blown out the lights one by one. Far from lighting
them again, he had not even watched them. Every moment his fear had
increased, until at last his limbs were almost paralyzed with terror.
But at length, when that awful roar had arisen, his stupor was
dispelled. An overmastering horror had seized him. He burst through
the line of lights; he fled across the field; he ran, with his official
robes streaming behind him, towards the Academy. Off went his hat: he
heeded it not; he kept on his way. He reached the door of the house; he
burst in. Up the stairs, and up another flight, and up another flight,
and yet another--so he ran, until at last he reached his room. Arriving
here, he banged to the door, and moved his bedstead against it,
and heaped upon the bedstead his trunk, his chairs, his table, his
looking-glass, his boots, his washstand, and every movable in the room.
Then tearing off the bedclothes, he rolled himself up in them, and
crouching down in a corner of the room, he lay there sleepless and
trembling till daybreak.
Nor was Solomon the only fugitive. Scarcely had he bounded away in his
headlong flight before Captain Corbet, with a cry of “O, my babby!”
plunged after him, through the line of lights into the gloom that
surrounded the ill-omened spot.
And there, over that track which saw the college gown of Solomon and the
coat tails of Captain Corbet streaming in the wind, there, fast and far,
in wild confusion, in headlong panic, fled the “B. O. W. C.” Who ran
first, and who came last, matters not. I certainly will never tell.
Enough is it for me to say that they RAN! Such is the power of Panic.
Great, however, as was that panic, it did not last long; and by the time
they reached the edge of the playground on the crest of the hill, they
all slackened their pace and stopped by mutual consent. There they stood
in silence for some time, looking back at the place from which they had
fled, and where now a few lights were still flickering.
And there was one great question in all their minds.
What was It?
But this none of them could tell, and so they all kept silent.
That silence was at last broken by Bart.
“Well, boys,” said he, “what are we going to do now? Our shovels and
lights are there; and, worst of all, our palladium---the bust. Solomon
has gone, and Captain Corbet; but we still remain. We’ve rallied; and
now what shall we do? Shall we retreat, or go back again to the hole?”
Bart spoke, and silence followed. Overhead the clouds swept wrathfully
before the face of the moon, and all around’ rose the dim forest shades.
In front flickered and twinkled the feeble, fitful lights. And there, by
those lights, was That, whatever it was, from which they had fled.
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do, at any rate,” said Bruce, in a harsh,
constrained voice; “_I’ll go back to that hole, if I die for it_.”
“You!” cried Bart.
“Yes,” said Bruce, standing with his fists close clinched, and his brow
darkly frowning; “yes, I; you fellows may come or stay, just as you
like.”
A man’s courage must be measured from his own idea of danger. A couple
of hundred years ago many acts were brave which to-day are commonplace.
To defy the superstitions of the age may be a sign of transcendent
courage. Now, of all these boys Bruce was by far the most superstitious;
yet he was the first who offered to go back to face _That_ from which
they had all fled. It was an effort of pure pluck. It was a grand recoil
from the superstitious timidity of his weaker self. Buoyed up by his
lofty pride and sense of shame, he crushed down the fear that rose
within him, and his very superstition made his act all the more
courageous. And as he spoke those last words, before the others had time
to say anything in reply, he turned abruptly, and strode back with firm
steps towards the cellar. So he stalked off, steeling his shaking nerves
and rousing up the resources of his lofty nature. By that victory over
the flesh he grew calm, and walked steadily back into the dark, ready
to encounter any danger that might be lingering there--an example of
splendid courage and conquest over fear.
But he did not long walk alone. Before he had taken a dozen steps the
others were with him, and in a short time they were all in the hole
again. Bart proceeded to light the extinguished candles, while Bruce
quietly picked up the spades, assisted by the other boys. Soon all the
lights were burning, and Bart joined the little knot of boys who were
standing in the centre of the cellar.
“Well,” said he, coolly, “the old question is before us--What are we to
do now? Shall we stay here and dig, or shall we go home and go to bed?
For my part, if you wish to dig I’ll dig; but at the same time I think
we’d better retire, taking our things with us, and postpone our digging
till another time.”
“I won’t say anything about it,” said Bruce. “I’ll do either. One thing,
however, I promise not to do; whatever happens, I won’t run again.”
“The fact is,” said Arthur, “there’s no use talking about digging any
more to-night. It was all very well while we were in the humor. It was
all fun; but the fun has gone; we’ve disgraced ourselves. What _That_
was I don’t pretend to know; but it may have been a trick. If so, we’re
watched. And I don’t think any of us feel inclined to dig here with some
of the other fellows giggling at us from among the trees.”
“It may have been the Gaspereaugians,” said Phil.
Suddenly a heavy sigh was heard, not far away.
“Hu-s-s-s-s-s-s-h!” said Bart; “what’s that?”
“That? One of the cows,” said Tom.
“I tell you what it is, boys,” said Phil; “some of the fellows have got
wind of our plan, and have been playing this trick on us. If so, we’ll
never hear the end of it.”
“I’d rather have our fellows do it than the Gas-pereaugians,” said Bart,
solemnly. “What a pity we didn’t think of this before we began! We’d not
have been taken so by surprise.”
“Well,” said Phil, “I believe it was some trick; but how any human
beings could contrive to make such an unearthly noise, such a mixture
of thunder, and howling, and screeching, I cannot for the life of me
imagine.”
“Still,” said Bruce, “it may _not_ have been a trick. It may have been
something which ought to make us afraid.”
“I believe,” said Tom, “that we’ll find out all about it yet. Let us
only keep dark, say nothing, and keep our eyes and ears open. We’ll find
it out some time.”
“Well,” said Arthur, “I suppose we’re all out of the humor for digging.
If so, suppose we smooth over this hole; and then we can take away our
lights and spades. My only idea in coming back was to get the things and
destroy all traces of our digging.”
“All right,” said Bruce, seizing a spade.
The other boys did the same, and soon the hole was filled up. They
placed the sods over it as neatly as they could, and though the soil
bore marks of disturbance, yet they were not conspicuous enough to
excite particular attention.
Then they proceeded to gather up the things so as to carry them away. In
the midst of this there came a voice out of the darkness, a long, loud,
shrill voice,--a voice of painful, eager, anxious inquiry.
“B-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-ys! O, b-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-ys!”
“It’s Captain Corbet!” cried Bart. “Hallo-o-o-o-o!” he shouted. “All
ri-i-i-i-i-i-ght! We-e-e-’re h-e-e-e-re! All sa-a-a-a-a-a-afe! Come
alo-o-o-o-o-o-o-ong!”
He stopped shouting then, and they all listened attentively. Soon they
heard footsteps approaching, and before long they saw emerging from the
gloom the familiar form and the reverend features of Captain Corbet. He
came down into the hole, and after giving a furtive look all around, he
said,--“So you’ve ben a toughin of it out, hev you? Wal, wal, wal!”
“No, captain,” said Bart; “we all ran as fast as we could.”
“You did!” cried Captain Corbet, while a gleam of joy illuminated his
venerable face. “You ran! What actilly? Not railly?”
“Yes, we all ran; and stopped at the edge of the hill, and then, seeing
nothing, we came back to get the things.”
“Wal,” said Captain Corbet, “that’s more’n I’d hev done. I’m terewly
rejiced to find that you clar’d out, sence it makes me not so ’shamed
o’ myself; but I wonder at your comin back, I do railly. It was a
vice,” he continued, solemnly, “a vice o’ warnin. Hark! from the tombs
a doleful sound! But it’s all right now. Sence you’ve ben an stopped
up the hole, I ain’t afeard any more. But, boys,”--and he regarded them
with a face full of awe,--“boys, let that vice be a warnin. Don’t you
ever go a diggin any more for a pot of gold. I give up that thar biz
now, and forevermore. See here, and bar witness, all.”
Saying this Captain Corbet took his mineral rod with both hands, and
snapped it across his knee; then, letting the fragments fall on the
ground, he put his feet over them.
“Thar, that’s done! I got that thar rod from a demon in human form,” he
said. “It was old Zeke; I bought it from him. He showed me how to use
it. It was not myself, boys. Old Corbet don’t want money; it was the
babby. That pereshus infant demanded my parential care. I wanted to heap
up wealth for his sake. But it’s all over. That vice has been a warnin.
While diggin here, I pined arter the babby; an when that vice come, a
soundin like thunder in my ears, I fe-led. I cut like lightnin across
the fields, an got to my own hum. But when I got thar I thought o’
youns. I couldn’t go in to see my babby, and leave you here in danger.
So I come back; an here we air again, all safe, at last. An the infant’s
safe to hum; an the rod’s broke forevermore; an my dreams of gold hev
ben therrown like dumb idols to the moulds and tew the bats,--to delude
me no more forever. That’s so; an thar you hev it; an I remain yours
till death shall us part.”
After some further conversation, the money-diggers gathered up all their
pots, and kettles, and pans, and spades, and pickaxes, and shovels, and
hoes, and candles, and lanterns, and finally the Bust. These they bore
away, and bidding an affectionate adieu to Captain Corbet, they went to
the Academy, and succeeded in reaching their rooms unobserved.
And during all the time that they lingered in the cellar there was no
repetition of that sound, nor was there any interruption whatever.