THE QUAKER’S STORY.
Now it happened that Hank Quilling, the tavern keeper, was gazing
straight toward the spot where John was concealed at the moment the boy
sprang up, as if out of the earth. The surprise that the fellow suffered
as he saw the lad so upset him that he could do nothing but yell, and
yell lustily he did:
“There he goes, Duff! There he goes! Stop him, Duff, stop him!”
Duff, likewise taken by surprise, and being under the impression at
first, as he heard the leaves rustle under the flying boy’s feet, and
saw a shadow streaking among the trees, that an Indian was after him,
was given such a scare to begin with, and was so chagrined directly
afterward, when he discovered what had taken place, that his wrath rose
in a mighty storm.
Quilling’s yelling at him, instead of pursuing or shooting at the boy
himself directed Duff’s rage toward the former landlord. Paying no
attention to John, he rushed madly up to Quilling. With the most
frightful curses he called the old fellow “a driveling idiot” and worse
names, and ended by slapping him full in the face.
Even this vile insult, however, served only to make the erstwhile tavern
keeper beg the more piteously for mercy, and try the harder to excuse
himself to the man he feared. Never was there a more abject coward.
Considerably astonished that he was not pursued, though he heard the
epithets Duff rained upon Quilling, John soon slackened his pace to a
brisk walk, and looked about to get his bearings. He had lost sight of
the trail when approaching the fallen tree, and in his haste to flee
from the spot when discovery was no longer to be escaped, he had run in
the wrong direction. The position of the sun, however, and the mossy
bark on the north side of the trees, aided him in soon finding the right
course, and in due time he reached Neb. Then he remembered that his
shovel had been left in the grave intended for Ichabod Nesbit, and rode
back for it.
The short afternoon was nearly gone, and it was likely that at any
moment Duff and his two choice friends would come upon the scene. Still
John resolved to try to complete the work of burying Nesbit’s remains.
He stooped and picked up the shovel.
Bang—splank! A bullet shattered the handle of the tool and knocked it
from the lad’s hands. At the same instant he saw Duff and Dexter running
toward him, Quilling bringing up the rear.
In a trice John was mounted and away amid the frantic yells of Quilling
and the harsh curses of Duff, and though Dexter took aim at him, he did
not fire.
“It’s the charm—it’s the charm!” cried Quilling tremblingly. “Three
times that pesky young rooster has got away from us this day! It’s bad
luck—bad luck to follow him now!”
John heard the cry as he sped up the hill, but he knew Duff would ignore
it, and feeling sure that he would be followed clear to the cabin,
sooner or later, he lost no more time in hurrying toward home. He did
not even stop in the gully to hitch Neb to the abandoned cart, as he had
planned, but hurried by. It was now so late that he would not reach the
cabin until after dark at best, and to try to thread the uncertain trail
with the cart after darkness came was out of the question, even should
he encounter no wolves, which animals were not unlikely to attack him if
given half an opportunity after nightfall.
The sparks pouring out of the great chimney of the cabin and the light
shining through the chinks here and there, giving promise of a warm fire
and supper awaiting him, were a most pleasant sight to John as he
galloped into the clearing and across the little valley to his home, in
the early twilight. The night had come on cold and raw, with every
indication of a considerable snowfall and an end of the bright days of
autumn weather which had extended into December.
Ree came quickly out of the cabin as he heard John’s approach.
“Trot along in, old boy, and warm yourself, I’ll look after Neb,” he
said, wondering why John had not brought the old cart home, but waiting
for another time to ask questions, for he knew his chum must be cold.
Ah, how pleasant it was to be snug and comfortable and safe once more,
and with his mind chuck-full of interesting things to tell Ree, thought
John, when he had washed his hands and face and spoken a pleasant word
to the quiet Quaker sitting in a big, easy chair the boys had rigged up
for him, with the half of a large hollow block of wood for a back. There
was the delicious smell of fresh bear steaks to sharpen his appetite,
too, and a crisp, brown johnny-cake still smoking hot on the table. A
little bark basket of hickory nuts, to be cracked afterward as a relish
and to help pass the time pleasantly, was on the rude chimney mantel.
Only one thing marred his happiness. It was the thought of the awful
murder of Black Eagle and of the Indian’s body lying cold and still in
the dark forest.
“Yes, sir, I guess it does feel good to be back again,” said John most
heartily, in reply to a remark the Quaker made, and soon Ree came in and
supper was ready at once.
Theodore Hatch was helped up to the table, easy chair and all, and the
two boys seated themselves on three-legged stools, of their own
manufacture.
“I’ve got a heap to tell,” said John, brimming over with anxiety to
impart his information, but giving Ree a wink to signify that he could
not tell all in the presence of the Quaker without letting the latter
know the object of his journey.
“Go ahead; let’s hear the whole story,” said Ree. “Mr. Hatch knows where
you went, and why. For, you see, he made a discovery to-day, and then I
told him where Ichabod Nesbit was killed, and that you had gone to give
his bones a respectable burial.”
The gravity of Ree’s tone caused John to ask, with some concern:
“A discovery?”
“Yes; he was robbed at the Eagle tavern of the half of a letter telling
the location of a fortune hidden in the ground somewhere near
Philadelphia. Now, don’t open your eyes so. We should have guessed as
much after seeing the letter those men, Duff and Dexter, and the
landlord, had. The fact is, Mr. Hatch has not told his story more than
what I have told you, but waited until you should be here to hear it.”
“But tell thy own story first, friend. Mine can wait,” the Quaker said.
“Well, Black Eagle’s dead, and Duff and Dexter killed him. I saw Duff
shoot him down. They might have killed me, but I got away from them.
Quilling, the landlord at the Eagle tavern, is with them, and—”
Really enjoying the sensation he had caused, John paused and looked at
Ree, who was staring at him in astonishment, and at the Quaker, who was
wringing his hands, greatly distressed, as he always was when he heard
of the killing of human beings, or of any act of cruelty.
“The poor Indian! Father in heaven, forgive the slayers of so good a man
as Black Eagle!” came prayerfully from the Quaker’s lips.
“Did you know him—Black Eagle, I mean?” asked John in some surprise.
The Quaker nodded, and Ree, recovering from the depths of thought into
which his mind had sunk, quickly said:
“Now, John, do tell all that happened! Begin at the time you left here!
You saw three fellows and—”
“Just wait a jiffy,” John interrupted. “I didn’t see those fellows when
I left here, any such thing!”
Ree smiled and allowed his friend to begin all over again and tell the
story in his own way. This John did to the satisfaction of both his
hearers, when once fairly started, and long before he had finished they
were forgetting their supper, growing cold before them as they listened.
“Those chaps will be here, sooner or later. We’ve got to watch out for
them,” said Ree decisively, when John concluded. “What a horrible fellow
that Duff is!”
“Such greed for gold—such greed for gold!” murmured Theodore Hatch
sorrowfully. “Better, my dear, kind aunt, hadst thou thrown thy riches
and thy jewels to the flames!”
“Does Mr. Hatch know we have the half of the letter which Ichabod Nesbit
had?” John asked, in the midst of the questions Ree put to him, and the
exclamation of the Quaker.
“I know thou hast the writing, friend. I know that, and promise me that
Duff shall never have it!”
The old gentleman’s eager earnestness was most intense. As he spoke he
rose partially to his feet, leaning heavily on the table. His movement
was so sudden, his manner so keenly earnest, that both Ree and John
involuntarily started back in surprise, the Quaker bending toward them.
As for an instant all paused in these attitudes, the hickory bark torch
on the mantel and the blaze of the fire casting a flickering, ruddy glow
upon them, a most dramatic picture was presented.
“Sit down, Mr. Hatch,” said Ree quietly, hesitating but a moment. “Duff
shall not have that portion of the letter which we found. It is your
own, and we shall help you to prevent his getting it, if he tries.”
“What we want to do,” said John bluntly, “is to get hold of the part of
the letter that Duff has.”
“That depends on what Mr. Hatch says,” Ree answered.
“It was my poor, dear aunt’s money. It was to be Ichabod’s and mine. Now
Ichabod’s gone, and—”
“All the money is yours,” John put in as the Quaker hesitated.
“I wish very much to get it—it is all mine—I wish I could remember the
wording of the part of the letter stolen from me. Alas, I cannot—and the
half of the writing which Ichabod had, and for which I undertook so
much, is now of no use to me. If Mr. Duff comes here, as you say he may,
I shall ask him to give me the paper they took from my saddle-bags. I
shall insist; for the writing can be of no use to him without that which
goes with it.”
“Of course not,” said John, smiling at the old gentleman’s simplicity.
“But tell your story now, Mr. Hatch, if you are not too tired,” Ree
urged. “Yet you must not over-estimate your strength, you know.”
“To be sure,” John quickly added, “I’ve been wanting for a long time to
know about that hidden treasure, and who hid it, and what for. Why, Ree
and I talked about it many times, before we knew anything more about it
than was in the letter which Nesbit had—”
“It is not much of a story,” said the Quaker sadly, as John left the
sentence unfinished, “but I will tell thee all I know and should have
told thee long before but wished to be sure that I could trust thee.”
“That was when you thought that your half of the fortune letter was in
your saddle-bags,” put in John slyly, while Ree could not but smile at
the odd mixture of cupidity and simplicity which Mr. Hatch displayed,
and his chum’s gentle insinuation that the Quaker would not trust them
until he found his much-prized letter missing.
“Yea, verily, I thought the letter was in my saddle-bags, and watched
them so closely, fearing some one would suspect my secret. I could not
endure to have them out of my sight, but never once did I doubt that the
paper was safely inside the little pocket I had made for it. And lo, it
had been taken out far back at the Eagle tavern! Verily, it is in heaven
that we should lay up golden treasure, where moth and rust cannot
corrupt. But we must try to obtain the paper which was taken from me;
aye, we must not fail to do that! Yet there must be no bloodshed—no
fighting!”
Seeing how his chance remark had switched the Quaker from his story,
John resolved to interrupt no more, nor did he. Mr. Hatch’s mind,
however, was apparently so divided between the thought of his loss and
the narrative he was trying to relate that his progress was tediously
slow. Not once did the boys suspect, however, that he was not telling
the absolute truth.
The old gentleman explained to the two friends that when he first
discovered that the letter had been removed from his saddle-bags, he
suspected them of taking it; but when he had told Ree that the paper was
missing and the latter at once remembered the writing in the hands of
Duff, Dexter and Quilling at the Eagle tavern, and the peculiar
circumstances connecting Ichabod Nesbit’s name with matter, and informed
him of this, he knew his young hosts were innocent, and blamed himself
harshly for doubting them.
The Quaker’s story was a long one, and may be summed up substantially as
follows:
He and Ichabod Nesbit, he stated, were half-brothers. Ichabod being the
younger by nearly twenty years, there had never been much companionship
between them, and they drifted farther and farther apart after the death
of their mother. She had been an English girl and her first husband, Mr.
Hatch’s father, was an Englishman. With the family lived the mother’s
sister, whom they called “Aunt Harriet.” A good many years after Mr.
Hatch’s father died, his mother had been married a second time to John
Nesbit. Of this union Ichabod was born. At the breaking out of the
Revolutionary war, Ichabod was a wild, worthless young fellow and left
home presumably to become a soldier, and Theodore Hatch, having become a
Quaker, meanwhile, remained in Pennsylvania and saw his brother no more.
Time passed and the mother of the two half-brothers died. It then
developed that property she had had in her own name had all been spent
by her second husband, now deceased, and by Ichabod. But her sister,
“Aunt Harriet,” was still possessed of means, through fortunate
investments in Philadelphia.
However, she was also possessed of a stern, Loyalist spirit, and though
she privately admitted that King George III. was a “sap-head,” in her
own language, she strongly insisted that no matter who or what the king
was, his subjects should be loyal. She resolved to return to England,
and secretly disposed of her property, though at great sacrifice. She
would not, however, take with her to England the wealth she had acquired
in the Colonies whose rebel spirit she hated.
What was to be done? She determined to give all that she left behind to
her nephews, Theodore Hatch and Ichabod Nesbit. But as both were absent,
she hit upon the plan of hiding her fortune, and then, after writing a
careful description of the location of the hiding place, cut the writing
in two, sending one-half to one nephew, the other to the other; and
sending to each, also, a long letter explaining her plan and urging them
to be more brotherly—Ichabod to be a better man and Theodore to be more
charitable toward him.
To obtain her fortune they would thus be obliged to meet and put
together the two halves of the written description of the spot where the
money and valuables were secreted, or they could not find that hiding
place. Well pleased with her novel scheme, the old lady bade the
half-brothers an affectionate farewell in the letters which she wrote,
and at the earliest opportunity departed for England, never to return.
Nearly a year passed, the Quaker stated, before the lawyer to whom the
secret letters were entrusted found Theodore Hatch and delivered his
letter to him. The lawyer knew nothing of the letter’s contents, and
when the Quaker inquired of him concerning Ichabod Nesbit, he could give
no information save that Ichabod had been in Philadelphia expecting to
find his aunt and get some money; but she was gone, and he got instead
the letter left for him.
“You can tell that pious half-brother o’ mine that if he wants to do
business with me he can hunt me up. I ain’t goin’ to look fer him.”
This was the message Ichabod left for the Quaker, the latter said, but
the lawyer, not knowing what the words meant, gave them no particular
thought.