Pieces of Eight | Page 4

treasure. We had
talked more than usual that evening--talked duck and shark till those
inexhaustible themes seemed momentarily exhausted. Then it was I
who started us off again by asking John what he knew about buried
treasure.
At this, John laughed his funny little quiet laugh, his eyes twinkling out
of his wrinkles, for all the world like mischievous mice looking out of a

cupboard, took a sip of his port, a pull at his cigar, and then:
"Buried treasure!" he said, "well, I have little doubt that the islands are
full of it--if one only knew how to get at it."
"Seriously?" I asked.
"Certainly. Why not? When you come to think of it, it stands to reason.
Weren't these islands for nearly three centuries the stamping ground of
all the pirates of the Spanish Main? Morgan was here. Blackbeard was
here. The very governors themselves were little better than pirates. This
room we are sitting in was the den of one of the biggest rogues of them
all--John Tinker--the governor when Bruce was here building Fort
Montague, at the east end yonder; building it against pirates, and little
else but pirates at the Government House all the time. A great old time
Tinker gave the poor fellow. You can read all about it in his 'Memoirs.'
You should read them. Great stuff. There they are," pointing to an old
quarto on some well lined shelves, for John is something of a scholar
too; "borrow them some time."
"Yes, but I want to hear more about the treasure," interrupted I,
bringing him back to the point.
"Well, as I was saying, Nassau was the rendezvous for all the
cut-throats of the Caribbean Sea. Here they came in with their loot,
their doubloons and pieces of eight"; and John's eyes twinkled with
enjoyment of the rich old romantic words, as though they were old port.
"Here they squandered much of it, no doubt, but they couldn't squander
it all. Some of them were thrifty knaves too, and these, looking around
for some place of safety, would naturally think of the bush. The niggers
keep their little hoards there to this day. Fawcett, over at Andros, was
saying the other night, that he estimates that they have something like a
quarter of a million dollars buried in tin cans among the brush over
there now--"
"It is their form of stocking," put in Charlie Webster.

"Precisely. Well, as I was saying, those old fellows would bury their
hoards in some cave or other, and then go off--and get hanged. Their
ghosts perhaps came back. The darkies have lots of ghost-tales about
them. But their money is still here, lots of it, you bet your life."
"Do they ever make any finds?" I asked.
"Nothing big that I know of. A jug full of old coins now and then. I
found one a year or two ago in my garden here--buried down among
the roots of that old fig tree."
"Then," put in Charlie, "there was that mysterious stranger over at
North Cay. He's supposed to have got away with quite a pile."
"Tell me about him," said I.
"Well, there used to be an old eccentric character in the town here--a
half-breed by the name of Andrews. John will remember him--"
John nodded.
"He used to go around all the time with a big umbrella, and muttering
to himself. We used to think him half crazy. Gone so brooding over this
very subject of buried treasure. Better look out, young man!"--smiling
at me. "He used to be always grubbing about in the bush, and they said
that he carried the umbrella, so that he could hide a machete in it--a sort
of heavy cutlass, you know, for cutting down the brush. Well, several
years ago, there came a visitor from New York, and he got thick with
the old fellow. They used to go about a lot together, and were often off
on so-called fishing trips for days on end. Actually, it is believed, they
were after something on North Cay. At all events, some months
afterward, the New Yorker disappeared as he had come, and has not
been heard from since. But since then, they have found a sort of brick
vault over there which has evidently been excavated. I have seen it
myself. A sort of walled chamber. There, it's supposed, the New Yorker
found something or other--"
"An old tomb, most likely," interrupted John, sceptically. "There are

some like that over at Spanish Wells."
"Maybe," said Charlie, "but that's the story for what it's worth."
As Charlie finished, John slapped his knee.
"The very thing for you!" he said, "why have I never thought of it
before?"
"What do you mean, John?" we both asked.
"Why, down at the office, I've