So there at last was the precious three thousand dollars of Long Buck
Sanderson and his partner Mink Havers safe in the hands of our
adventurers. Even on their way to the cabin after the scene just
described, Tom must pause long enough to climb the old elm and examine
the hollow in which the box had been for, who shall say how many years.
There were many nutshells in the hollow, which was evidently a favorite
nest of squirrels. The thought occurred to Tom how he had probably many
times seen the little creatures who lived so near that precious box.
From the branch where the hollow was, he could look straight down into
the fearful depth of the well. Mink Havers must have changed his mind
about the hiding place in a last moment of hurried consideration. It
seemed likely that he had fallen from the tree and that this had been
the cause of his cut head and unconscious state when found.
“You don’t suppose there’s the slightest possibility, do you,” said
Brent, as they went on to the cabin, “that Mink told Somers to get the
treasure? sure? That would put us in wrong.”
“Don’t make me laugh,” said Tom. “Why, didn’t the article in the
newspaper say the young doctor went to Europe? What was the use of that
lie? He didn’t go, he came here.”
“And like the light that lies in woman’s eyes, he lied and lied and
lied,” said Brent.
“My theory,” said Tom, “is that old Mink Havers was able to remember
something about where his money was; he knew it was in a tree, _but what
tree_? Somers was in trouble; that’s clear enough, isn’t it? And he
jumped at this means to get the money that he needed. Things certainly
broke right for him--till the last scene. He nearly got away with it.
The forestry and tree dentistry gag gave him the chance to explore all
the trees around here without starting suspicions. He was slick all
right--and some line of talk!”
“I think you were a little leary about him,” Tom said.
“I was, but I don’t know just why,” said Brent; “woman’s intuition, I
suppose.”
“Well, it’s all over but the shouting,” said Tom. “Just the same, we’ll
camp here till Labor Day, hey? I have a feeling things are going to move
along O. K.; old Havers will be heard from. Wonder what the
Philistine[1] will say.”
They found the bait-box to be locked, but they did not quite feel that
they could suffer the least uncertainty as to its contents, so they
ripped it open with a screw-driver and a can-opener. Inside it was a
shabby old leather wallet, bulging with the little fortune that it
contained. There was also an old bit of paper with some figures on it, a
sample probably, of Long Buck’s crude account-keeping in the matter of
his relations with Pollock. There was also something else which (when I
saw it later) interested me not a little. This was an old program of the
Gayety Museum which held forth on the Bowery in the bygone days. I
suppose old Buck had visited it.
The campers ate heartily and were gay at their meal that night. The
treasure (for they could never call it anything else) lay upon the
barrel which was their dining table and they glanced at it continually;
it had a sort of fascination for them. It carried their thoughts back to
a time when there were no camps and no Scouts in that wild region; when
this overgrown fastness in which they were camping was the home of hardy
hunters and trappers.
I had seen the last of the sturdy race who dwelt in that wilderness, but
Tom and Brent had seen not so much as a living remnant of the old
adventure and romance which had once been there. Only the little
primitive cabin was left, nestling amid the brush and trees, and
Conner’s well, and the old overgrown foundation of the forest home in
which Conner (whoever he was) had once dwelt. And the treasure, eloquent
memorial of those old hunting days....
And as they looked into that old bait-box where the musty wallet lay
open for repeated inspections, a thought was more or less clearly
formulated in the minds of both the adventurers. It was Tom who voiced
that thought.
“Do you know,” said he, “now that it’s all over, I don’t want that money
at all; I mean I wouldn’t care so much about it even if it didn’t belong
to anybody. It was the fun of wanting to find it, and of getting it.
Adventure is better than money, when it comes to a showdown. Because
it’s a blamed sight more scarce, I suppose.”
“Money does not always bring happiness, Tom,” said Brent, with a
whimsical look on his funny face.
“There you go, joking again,” said Tom.
“What are we going to do with the box when we go fishing?” Brent said.
“It would be a shame to take the money out of the box, it wouldn’t look
like treasure any more, it would just look like plain, common, everyday
money.”
“Plain, common, everyday money is right,” said Tom. “What do you say we
have a game of checkers? Somehow, I’ve turned against pinochle since
to-night.”
“I always said there was no romance to pinochle, Tommy,” said Brent.
“Checkers is full of medieval tradition. I think the pirates used to
play checkers--or was it Mah-Jong? Anyway, it wasn’t pinochle. All
right, I’ll beat you a game before we turn in. There goes the night
worker.”
“I kind of like to hear that owl screeching,” said Tom.
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[1] By “the Philistine” he meant my humble self.