BRANDON COMES TO A DECISION
THE first thought which flashed across Brandon Tarr’s mind as he read
the newspaper item quoted in the previous chapter was that the story
of the wreck of the Silver Swan, as told by the old sailor, had been
totally misleading.
“Why, he lied--point blank--to me!” he exclaimed, “and with this very
clipping in his pocket, too.”
He half started along the path as though to pursue the sailor, and then
thought better of it.
“He declared that he saw the Swan go down with his own eyes; and here
she was afloat on the 13th of March--a month after the wreck. He must
have wanted to keep the knowledge of that fact from me. But what for?
Ah! those papers!”
With this Brandon dropped back on the rock again and read the newspaper
clipping through once more. Then he went over the whole matter in his
mind.
What possible object could Caleb Wetherbee have in coming to him and
telling him the yarn he had, if there was no foundation for it? There
must be some reason for the story, Brandon was sure.
Evidently there had been papers either given into the hands of the
mate of the Silver Swan, or obtained by him by dishonest means. These
papers must relate to some property of value which had belonged to
Anson Tarr, Don’s uncle, and, his cupidity being aroused, the sailor
was trying to convert the knowledge contained in them to his own
benefit.
There was probably some “hitch” in the documents--something the
rascally mate could not understand, but which he thought Brandon could
explain. Therefore, his trip to Chopmist from New York to “pump” the
captain’s son.
“Without doubt,” said the boy, communing with himself, “the papers were
brought aboard the brig just as this rascally Wetherbee said, and they
were from Uncle Anson. Let’s see, he said he died at Kimberley--why,
that’s right at the diamond mines!” For like most boys with adventurous
spirits and well developed imagination, Brandon had devoured much that
had been written about the wonderful diamond diggings of South Africa.
“Perhaps--who knows?” his thoughts ran on, “Uncle Anson ‘struck it
rich’ at the diamond mines before he died. There’s nothing impossible
in that--excepting the long run of ill luck which had cursed this
family.”
He shook his head thoughtfully.
“If Uncle Anson had owned a share in a paying diamond mine, this
rascally sailor would have known at once that the papers relating to
it could not benefit him, for the ownership would be on record there
in Kimberley. It must, therefore, be that the property--whatever
it may be--is in such shape that it can be removed from place to
place--perhaps was brought aboard the brig by the friend of Uncle
Anson who told father of his death.”
For the moment the idea did not assist in the explanation of the course
of Caleb Wetherbee in retaining the papers. But Brandon had set himself
to the task of reasoning out the mystery, and when one thread failed
him he took up another.
“One would think,” he muttered, “that if there had been any money
brought aboard the brig, father would have taken it on the raft with
him when they left; but still, would he?
“According to the report the brig grounded on Reef Number 8, and
perhaps was not hurt below the water line. The next gale from the
west’ard blew her off again. She is now a derelict, _and if the money
was hidden on board it would be there now_!”
At this sudden thought Brandon sprang up in excitement and paced up and
down the path.
He had often heard of the wrecks of vessels abandoned in mid ocean
floating thousands of miles without a hand to guide their helms, a
menace and danger to all other craft. The Silver Swan might float for
months--aye, for years; such a thing was possible.
“And if the money--if it _is_ money--is hidden aboard the brig, the one
who finds the derelict first will have it,” was the thought which came
to him.
“But why should the mate come to _me_ about it?” Brandon asked himself.
“Why need he let _me_ know anything about the papers, or the treasure,
if he wished to recover it himself? Didn’t he know where on the brig
the money was hidden? Or didn’t the papers tell that?”
He cudgled his brains for several minutes to think _where_ his father
would have been likely to hide anything of value on the brig. Was there
any place which only he and his father had known about?
This idea suggested a train of reminiscences. He had been aboard the
Silver Swan several times while she lay in Boston, and had been all
over her.
Once, possibly four years before (it seemed a long time to him now), he
had been alone with his father in the cabin, and Captain Tarr had shown
him an ingeniously hidden sliding panel in the bulkhead, behind which
was a little steel lined cavity, in which the captain kept his private
papers.
Perhaps Caleb Wetherbee did not know about this cupboard, and it was
this information that he wished to get from him. The idea seemed
probable enough, for if he did not know where the treasure was hidden
on the brig, what good would the papers relating to it be to him?
“There may be a fortune there, just within my grasp, and yet I not be
able to get at it,” muttered Don, pacing the rough path nervously.
“Despite his former confidence in this Wetherbee, father must have
doubted him at the last and not dared to take the treasure (if treasure
it really is) when he left the brig.
“Instead, he gave him these papers, hoping the fellow would be honest
enough to place them in my hands; but, still fearing to fully trust the
mate, he wrote his directions to me so blindly, that Wetherbee is all
at sea about what to do.
“Wetherbee knows that the brig is afloat--this clipping proves
that--and he hoped to get the information he wanted from me and then
go in search of the Silver Swan. _Why can I not go in search of it
myself?_”
The thought almost staggered him for an instant, yet to his boyish
mind the plan seemed feasible enough. He knew that derelicts are often
carried by the ocean currents for thousands of miles before they
sink, yet their movements are gradual, and by a close study of the
hydrographic charts he believed it would be possible to locate the
wrecked brig.
“I’ve got no money, I know,” he thought, “at least, not much; but I’ve
health and strength and an ordinary amount of pluck, and it will be
strange if I can’t accomplish my purpose if the old brig only holds
together long enough.”
He looked at the soiled card the sailor had given him.
“‘New England Hotel, Water Street,’” he repeated. “Some sailors’
boarding house, likely. I believe--yes, I will--go to New York myself
and see this scoundrelly Wetherbee again. He can’t do _much_ without
me, I fancy, and perhaps, after all, I can use him to my own benefit. I
ought to be as smart as an ignorant old sailor like him.”
He stood still a moment, gazing steadily at the ground.
“I’ll do it, I vow I will!” he exclaimed at last, raising his head
defiantly. “Uncle Arad’s got no hold upon me and I’ll go. I’ll start
tomorrow morning,” with which determination he picked up his rifle and
left the woods.