THE MERCER BOYS ON
A TREASURE HUNT
By CAPWELL WYCKOFF
Author of
“The Mercer Boys at Woodcrest,” “The Mercer Boys’ Cruise in the
Lassie,” “The Mercer Boys’ Mystery Case,” “The Mercer Boys on the Beach
Patrol,” “The Mercer Boys in Summer Camp.”
[Illustration: Series logo]
THE
WORLD SYNDICATE PUBLISHING CO.
Cleveland, Ohio New York City
Copyright, MCMXXIX
_by_
THE WORLD SYNDICATE PUBLISHING CO.
[Illustration: Publisher logo]
_Printed in the United States of America_
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I The Professor’s Letter 3
II The Story of the Phantom Galleon 13
III A Royal Invitation 20
IV The Professor is Attacked 29
V The Prowler in the Night 41
VI The Scene in the Moonlight 52
VII Sackett’s Raid 63
VIII The Search is Begun 72
IX The Ruined Castle 81
X The Rope in the Dungeon 92
XI The Underground Passage 101
XII The Tolling of the Bell 109
XIII A Forced March 119
XIV History Repeats 129
XV The Mountain Sage 139
XVI The Landing Party 150
XVII The Escape 159
XVIII Treasure and Treachery 170
XIX An Old Friend Joins the Party 182
XX The Tar Barrel 191
XXI The Cairn 201
XXII The Den 211
XXIII The Dragon’s Last Stroke 219
XXIV Ned Takes a New Overseer 237
THE MERCER BOYS ON A
TREASURE HUNT
CHAPTER I
THE PROFESSOR’S LETTER
“I’d like to have a crack at that ball,” said Don Mercer, with a grin.
His brother Jim returned the grin as he said: “Let’s go out on the field
and ask the kids to toss us one. They won’t mind giving us one swing at
it.” The two Mercer brothers were standing at the edge of a large vacant
lot near the center of their home town one morning late in June. They
had been home from Woodcrest Military Institute for a week now on their
summer vacation, and this particular day, having nothing more exciting
to do, they had wandered around the town, coming at length to a familiar
field where they had often played baseball. A number of youngsters were
on the ground now, tossing and batting a discolored baseball, and the
sight of them had caused the sandy haired, slightly freckled Don to
express his wish.
The two boys walked across the field toward the boys and Don said:
“Wonder how much further I can hit it now than I could when I played
here as a kid?”
“Hard to tell,” returned Jim. “But we certainly got quite a bit of
practise this spring at Woodcrest.”
The small boys looked at them as they drew nearer, but as the Mercer
boys were well known the boys felt no alarm or resentment at the
approach of the larger lads. Don walked over to the boy who held the bat
and held out his hand.
“How about giving me one crack at the ball, Charlie?” he asked.
The boy smiled and extended the bat, a bit of embarrassment in his look.
“Sure, Don. Take a couple of them,” he invited.
“I guess one will be enough,” remarked Don, as he turned to face a boy
who held the ball. “Put a good one over, Tommy, will you?”
The boy addressed as Tommy grinned boyishly and turned to the youngsters
who stood far afield, waiting for flies to be batted to them. “Get way
out, you fellows,” he cried. “This fellow can hit ’em!”
The two fielders backed away and Tommy threw a fast ball to Don. The
latter easily batted it out and one of the youngsters caught it
triumphantly. Don handed the bat to Jim, who in turn cracked the ball
out along the ground.
“Just one more, fellows,” begged Don, taking the bat from his brother’s
hand. When the ball had been turned over to young Tommy he wound his arm
up slowly and then pitched it with considerable force in Don’s
direction.
“Hit that!” he cried.
It was traveling on a straight line and Don swung the bat around
sharply. There was a singing crack as the wood met the ball, and the
muddy spheroid sailed in a mounting curve up into the air. It passed
high above the fielder’s head and made its way straight for the side
window of a small house that stood on the edge of the field.
“Oh, boy!” shouted Jim. “Right through the window!”
His statement was correct. With a disconcerting crash the ball smashed
the window to pieces.
Don dropped the bat and shoved his hands into his pocket. “Well, I’ll be
jiggered!” he exclaimed. “How is that for bad luck? Right through
Professor Scott’s window!”
“I hope the professor wasn’t at home, and in that room,” said Jim.
“Guess we had better go over and see about it.”
“Right you are,” nodded Don. “Thanks for the hits, kids. Come on, Jim.”
Leaving the boys to gather and talk things over in awed tones the two
Mercer brothers made their way across the field in the direction of
Professor Scott’s house. The gentleman mentioned had been their history
teacher while they were in grammar school, and they knew him quite well,
so they had no great fears as to the outcome. No one had appeared at the
window or at the doors, and Jim supposed that the professor was not at
home.
“I guess not,” Don returned, “or he would surely have appeared by now.
But we’ll go over and see, and if he isn’t we’ll leave a note and tell
him who did it, and offer to pay for it.”
While the Mercer boys are making their way across the field something
may be said as to who they were. Both boys, fine, manly chaps, were the
sons of a wealthy lumber man of Bridgewater, Maine. They had lived the
life of healthy young men whose interests were centered in worthwhile
things. Of late they had had some adventurous events in their lives,
some of which were related in the first volume of this series, The
Mercer Boys’ Cruise in the Lassie, when they ran down a marine bandit
gang, and later when solving a baffling mystery at the military school,
details of which were related in the second volume entitled The Mercer
Boys at Woodcrest. Together with their comrade, Terry Mackson, they had
faced many perils and adventures, and now they were home to spend, as
they thought, a comparatively dull vacation. Just how deeply mistaken
they were in their thought will be found later.
They entered the front yard of Professor Scott’s house and walked around
to the side, where the broken window faced toward the empty lot. There
appeared to be no one at home, but when they came opposite to the window
Don raised himself slightly on his toes and looked in. Then he dropped
down again and looked at Jim in astonishment.
“The professor is at home,” he said, in a low tone. “He’s sitting there,
reading a letter!”
“Reading a letter?” asked Jim, amazed.
“Yes,” answered his brother. “Look in.”
Jim raised himself and looked in the window. A tall man with bushy white
hair and a thick iron gray beard was seated at the desk in what appeared
to be a study, busily engaged in reading a letter. Near him, almost at
his feet, lay the boys’ ball, and fragments of broken glass littered the
floor. The professor was apparently deeply absorbed in his letter.
“Well, what do you know about that!” exclaimed Jim, softly. “Doesn’t
even seem to know that the window is broken! We always knew that he was
somewhat absent-minded, but I thought he was more responsible than
that!”
Before Don could reply there was a stir in the room and the next minute
the professor came to the window and looked down at them. He still held
what appeared to be a lengthy letter in his hand, and he recognized
them.
“Why, Don and Jim Mercer!” he cried, showing strong white teeth in an
engaging smile. “I’m glad to see you home again. Did you come to see
me?”
“I came to apologize for breaking your window, and to offer to pay for
it, Professor Scott,” answered Don. “I was batting out the ball for some
boys, and I hit it harder than I expected to. I hope it didn’t startle
you very much?”
“I jumped a little bit,” admitted the professor. “I did notice it!”
“Notice it!” exploded Jim. “I should think that you might have! It
certainly made enough noise.”
“It did make some. I felt that it was some of the boys playing ball and
I was going to throw the ball back to them in a minute.” He picked the
ball up and handed it to Don. “Throw it back, and then come inside,
won’t you?”
Don threw the ball back to the small boys, who were watching from the
field. “Are you sure we won’t be breaking in on you, professor?” he
asked.
“Not as much as you did a few minutes ago!” smiled the teacher. “Come
around through the back way.”
When the boys entered the professor’s study he motioned them to chairs
and asked them a few questions about their school life and studies. All
the time he held the letter in his hand, and when he had finished
talking about their school he took the lead in the conversation.
“I guess you boys wonder what is so interesting in this letter that I
hardly noticed a ball when it broke through my window,” he began. “Well,
I remember how interested you boys were in history while in my classes,
and I’m glad you came along when you did. This letter is from my son
Ned, who lives in Lower California, and it contains one of the most
fascinating stories I ever came across!”
Knowing as they did the professor’s deep interest in historic and
scientific studies and discoveries the boys found themselves interested
at once. The teacher went on, after a glance at the letter, “Ned owns a
small farm or homestead in Lower California near the mines at San
Antonio and Triunfo, where he tests the ores and carries on general
scientific studies. He tells me that the ores are refractory and not
easy to test, but he enjoys the work and is devoting his whole life to
it. I don’t think he is quite as much interested in historic things as I
am, but knowing how eager I am for relics and information of the past,
he has sent me this remarkable piece of news.
“Some time ago, a steam trawler, while fishing in 130 fathoms of water,
hauled up a piece of wreckage in its net. Upon examination it appeared
to be the bulwark of an ancient Spanish galleon, with parts of the
rigging attached. On the sides, plainly distinguishable, were designs in
hand-sewn leather. Some of those big, lumbering ships were decorated
quite extensively, you know, and this one was distinguished by its
hand-sewn leather covering. It was evident that somewhere in the
neighborhood a Spanish galleon had gone to the bottom, and it is always
a safe conclusion that where there is galleon there is also a treasure.
Those ships carried gold, silver and jewels from Old Mexico and Peru to
Spain, and this particular ship may have been going home after a trip up
the coast of California. That was the type of ship that the brave
English seamen of Queen Elizabeth’s time whipped so soundly at the time
of the Spanish Armada, and there were hundreds of them in service along
the shores of the Americas and the Islands.
“The spot was marked in the hope that treasure would be discovered, on
the presumption that it was a treasure ship, and shortly afterward
active operations were started by a California diving company. But
although they searched the shore under water in minute detail they found
nothing. The mystery is not that they didn’t find any treasure, but that
they didn’t find any more of the ship. You might think that perhaps that
particular piece had been washed there from some point further out, and
it is possible, but the piece, when netted, had been buried in the mud,
and it looks as though it had been there for centuries, though ships
haven’t a habit of sinking in sections, one part at one place and
another part in a different place. However, they didn’t find a thing,
and at last the whole undertaking was given up.”
“That is too bad,” said Jim, who was deeply absorbed in the story. “So
it was a false hope from the first.”
“How long ago was that?” asked Don.
“That was a little over a year ago,” answered the professor. “And that
leads me to the second part of my story. Ned had given up all interest
in it even before the diving and salvage company had, and he thought no
more about it. The piece of wreckage is a treasure in itself and was
sent up to San Francisco, where it was subsequently placed in a museum.
Realizing that I would be interested in it all he first wrote to me at
the time it happened, and I read it and wrote for news, but as the thing
died down I forgot it, too. I have planned to run out to San Francisco
sometime and see the part myself, and I intend doing so soon.
“Ned told me at the time that there had been some slight changes in the
coast line during the last few centuries. A number of creeks that
formerly ran into the ocean have closed up and disappeared, some of them
filled with shifting sand and soil. I don’t know if you were ever aware
of the fact or not, but although Lower California has a dry climate and
is mostly barren, there are spots where it is tropical and jungle plants
and trees grow there in luxurious profusion. Although they have almost
no rain, they do have violent storms, and at such times are treated to
regular cloudbursts. At those periods the elements raise the old dickens
and it was during these spells that some creeks and small rivers closed
up.
“Maybe you wonder why I’m particular to tell you all this. I do so
because I believe it has a direct bearing on the most amazing part of
Ned’s letter. I believe it explains the disappearance of the Phantom
Galleon!”
“The Phantom Galleon!” cried Don, while Jim stirred in eager interest.
“What is that, Professor Scott?”