"'Yessir, what good? There's all that there gold an' silver, an'

all them jooels an' preshis stones an' all them fine clo'es an'

what not, an' what good is it all a-doin' of, a-buried in the ground? The book-keeper here, Mike the Shark, was a-reckonin' up this morning, an' a-addin' this last lot o' gold, an' he tells us that 'cordin' to the 'greement the share of ev'ry man jack on us reckons up to a powerful big figger.'

"The book-keeper stepped forward. 'For each man,' said he, 'the precise sum to date is nine hundred and sixty-six thousand, seven hundred and forty-three dollars, and twenty-two cents.'

"'An' all hard-earned money, too,' said old Aaron; 'we've been a- sailin,' an' a-fightin', an' a-shootin' folks, an a-stabbin' on 'em, an' a-slittin' of their wind-pipes, an' a-walkin' 'em on The Plank, for sixty-five year come the sixteenth o' next August.'

"'Well, what do you want?' asked Black Pedro again. His voice was low, but terrible.

"'Why,' said the bo's'n, 'we'd like some of our share of the money, if it's all the same to you.'

"'And when you get it,' continued the pirate chief, 'what do you propose to do with it?'

"'Why, spend some on it, an' buy some o' the good things o' life.

Look at us. Like a lot of scare-crows, we be. In rags, ev'ry one on us, 'cept you,--an' your black velvet suit is lookin' a leetle mite rusty, if you'll 'scuse an ol' sailor-man, for speakin' right out. An' we'd like somethin' good to eat, an' somethin' good to drink. Look at me: risin' eighty-six year, I be, an' aint never tasted nothin' all my life 'cept salt-hoss, an' ship-bread, an'

rum; never slep' nowheres 'cept in a hammock, an' had to turn out on deck an' stand watch in all kinds of weather. An' wuth today nine hundred an' sixty-six thousand, seven hundred an' forty-three dollars, an' thirty-two cents.'

"'Twenty-two cents,' corrected the bookkeeper.'

"'Twenty-two cents,' said Aaron. 'An' what good does it do me?

Nothin' 't all. What can I buy with it, here on this here island?

Nothin'. Here I am--an' here we all be--scorched an' burnt by the sun, and bit by these here scorpions, an' other varmints, an'

dressed in rags an' tatters, an' all the while, all that loot of our'n lyin' there idle in the ground.'

"At this moment Black Pedro leaped four feet into the air, and gave a bellow like an infuriated tiger.

"'What?' he yelled, 'what? you dogs! you scoundrels! you miserable, low-down ruffians you! Oh, that I should have lived to see this day! Thankful am I that my father and grand-father are safe in their graves! This would have broken their hearts. Why, you horrible villains,--do you mean to tell me that you have been doing all this pirating for money?'

"Aaron Halyard sc.r.a.ped his feet in the sand, and shuffled about uneasily.

"'Beggin' yer pardin', Cap'n, but what in Sancho HAVE we been doin' of it for, else?'

"Black Pedro gave a moan, and then another bellow of rage.

"'Out of my sight, you miserable, sordid scoundrels,--out of my sight! What? You defy me, do you? This is mutiny! Take that! And that!'

"He s.n.a.t.c.hed two pistols from his sash and commenced firing, right and left. The first shot hit Mike the Shark and doubled up the book-keeper like a jack-knife, and the second one did the same for Sandy Buggins.

"'Hold hard, Cap'n!' cried the old bo's'n, 'p'r'aps you'll tell us what all this pirating WAS for, if it wa'n't for money.'

"'It was for the joy of pirating, you old rascal, as you ought to know. It was for the pure love of the thing. And to think that all these years I have been leading a base gang of money-getters!'

"And he grabbed another couple of pistols out of his boots, and began firing once more. At this, the pirates lost their patience.

They gave a deep roar, like a herd of angry buffalo, and closed in on their Captain. He jumped back, and continued to fire. They swarmed around him, and in a few minutes that group of pirates, who had always lived together like brothers, had changed into a blood-thirsty mob. Knives flashed and pistols cracked. Some of them hit each other in their excitement, and that made them so angry that they turned and fought amongst themselves. In the meantime, the Captain was firing his pistols and slashing with his cutla.s.ses, and making terrible havoc amongst his followers. In ten minutes all was over. Of that proud band of pirates, once the terror of the Spanish Main, only two men were left alive. These were Black Pedro himself, slightly wounded in the leg, but still able to walk, and old Aaron Halyard, the bo's'n. Aaron was running at top speed toward the beach, trying to get to a small boat. A little way behind him came the Captain.

"'Don't you tech me! don't you tech me!' screamed old Halyard.

"Black Pedro stopped and took careful aim, with the last of his fourteen pistols. He pulled the trigger, but there was no report.

Something had gone wrong with the priming. The bo's'n reached the boat, shoved off, and started to row for the ship. There was no other boat, and Pedro could only watch him. The old man rowed to 'The Angel of Death,' climbed aboard, and commenced, with the help of the boy, who had been left there, to get up the foresail. Then they hoisted the anchor, and the 'Angel' moved slowly out of the harbor. Black Pedro sat down on the beach, and watched it fade from sight. When night fell 'The Angel of Death' was only a speck on the horizon. Then the pirate chief returned to his cottage.

"On the following day a dreadful storm arose. Black Pedro knew that no ship, manned only by an aged bo's'n and a cabin-boy, could live through such a tempest. A few days later his worst fears were realized, for by the wreckage that was washed ash.o.r.e, he knew that 'The Angel of Death' had gone to pieces in the storm.

When The Plank itself, worn smooth on its upper side by the hundreds of feet that had pa.s.sed over it, was tossed upon the sh.o.r.es of Rum Island, the pirate sat down on the sand and sobbed aloud. He knew that old Halyard and the cabin-boy must have perished, and the n.o.blest crew of buccaneers on whom the sun had ever shone, were forever disbanded, and that he, their chief, was now the last of the pirates, alone and deserted on an undiscovered and unknown island.

"And there he lives to this day."

CHAPTER IV

WELL BURIED TREASURE

When Mr. Daddles finished his story there was a moment's silence.

Then Ed Mason asked:

"Is that all?"

"Isn't that enough?" inquired Mr. Daddles, "isn't that sad enough, just as it is?"

"It's sad enough," said Captain Bannister, "it's sad enough, all right. Once or twice I thought I'd bust right out cryin'."

And the Captain chuckled a little, choked, and wheezed.

"What beats me," he went on, "is where you picked up a yarn like that,--for you haint follered the sea very much, I take it?"

"Not very much," said Mr. Daddles.

"Not that yer troubles with that there canoe proves anything,"

returned the skipper, "for foolisher things was never invented. I wouldn't git into one of 'em not if you was to give me a thousand dollars. No, sir."

"Oh, my experience of a sailor's life has been limited," said the new pa.s.senger. "To tell the truth, I've never been as far East as this but once before. I was here for a few days, summer before last. My uncle lives at Bailey's Harbor, on Little Duck Island."

"Does he?" asked Jimmy Toppan,--"What's his name?"

"Alfred Peabody."

"Is HE your uncle?" exclaimed the Captain. "I know his house,--up there on the hill, aint it?"

"Yes, but he isn't there now. My aunt was there for a while, but she went away, about two weeks ago. The house is closed, I suppose."

Jimmy, who had been looking toward the sh.o.r.e, turned to the Captain.

"This is Pingree's, isn't it, Captain?"

"Yessir; this is Pingree's Beach. Two of yer better go ash.o.r.e an'

see old man Haskell. That's his shanty,--the one with the red door. Ask him to let yer have a basket of clams. Tell him I sent yer."