My Buried Treasure | Page 3

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Etext scanned by Aaron Cannon of Paradise, California

MY BURIED TREASURE
by Richard Harding Davis

This is a true story of a search for buried treasure. The only part that is
not true is the name of the man with whom I searched for the treasure.
Unless I keep his name out of it he will not let me write the story, and,
as it was his expedition and as my share of the treasure is only what I
can make by writing the story, I must write as he dictates. I think the
story should be told, because our experience was unique, and might be
of benefit to others. And, besides, I need the money.
There is, however, no agreement preventing me from describing him as
I think he is, or reporting, as accurately as I can, what he said and did as
he said and did it.
For purposes of identification I shall call him Edgar Powell. The last
name has no significance; but the first name is not chosen at random.
The leader of our expedition, the head and brains of it, was and is the
sort of man one would address as Edgar. No one would think of calling
him "Ed," or "Eddie," any more than he would consider slapping him
on the back.
We were together at college; but, as six hundred other boys were there
at the same time, that gives no clew to his identity. Since those days,
until he came to see me about the treasure, we had not met. All I knew
of him was that he had succeeded his father in manufacturing
unshrinkable flannels. Of course, the reader understands that is not the
article of commerce he manufactures; but it is near enough, and it
suggests the line of business to which he gives his life's blood. It is not

similar to my own line of work, and in consequence, when he wrote me,
on the unshrinkable flannels official writing-paper, that he wished to
see me in reference to a matter of business of "mutual benefit," I was
considerably puzzled.
A few days later, at nine in the morning, an hour of his own choosing,
he came to my rooms in New York City.
Except that he had grown a beard, he was as I remembered him, thin
and tall, but with no chest, and stooping shoulders. He wore eye-glasses,
and as of old through these he regarded you disapprovingly and warily
as though he suspected you might try to borrow money, or even joke
with him. As with Edgar I had never felt any temptation to do either,
this was irritating.
But from force of former habit we greeted each other by our first names,
and he suspiciously accepted a cigar. Then, after fixing me both with
his eyes and with his eye-glasses and swearing me to secrecy,