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Title: The treasure on the beach
Author: Julian Street
Frank Finney
Illustrator: Leon de Bernebruch
Sewell Collins
Harrison Fisher
Will Grefé
Avery Guilford Wallys
C. D. Williams
Release date: March 18, 2025 [eBook #75653]
Language: English
Original publication: Portsmouth: The Seaboard Air Line Railway, 1906
Credits: Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TREASURE ON THE BEACH ***
[Illustration: Cover art]
[Frontispiece: Avery Guilford Wallys' Idea of the Heroine.]
[Illustration: Title page]
The
TREASVRE
on the
BEACH
_by_ STREET &
FINNEY
THE SEABOARD
AIR LINE RAILWAY
Passenger Department
PORTSMOUTH VA
Copyright, 1906,
by STREET
& FINNEY
New York
Published for the Passenger
Department Seaboard Air Line
Railway, Portsmouth, Va.
The
TREASVRE
on the
BEACH
He was always a queer old codger--my Great Uncle Abner. I had never
laid eyes on him myself, but his eccentricities were tradition to me,
and when I thought of him at all, it was as a half-cracked old fellow
living alone in a shack, on a sandy key, somewhere off the coast of
Florida. Naturally one doesn't get close-range impressions of uncles
of this sort, especially if one's own life runs in very different
channels, and if one has enough money to get along on, and one's
"sandy-key-uncle" is not thought to have much of this world's goods.
On the morning that Uncle Abner's letter came I had gone downstairs
to breakfast feeling rather beastly. I saw the large legal-looking
envelope beside my plate, but, hardly having an appetite for eggs and
coffee, I naturally felt no enthusiasm for mail.
Drinking my coffee, I observed that the envelope was bulky--the sort
of envelope that might contain specifications for a breach of promise
suit. After a few sips of coffee I found the energy to open it.
Dear Sir:--You will find enclosed herewith a sealed letter, which we
are forwarding to you in accordance with instructions of your late
uncle, Abner Barker, before his death, which occurred, as you are of
course aware, at Lone Palm Key, Florida, December 20th. Our
instructions were to forward the enclosed letter to you one month
after your uncle's death, and to inform you that another letter--an
exact duplicate in every way of this one--has been sent
simultaneously to the only other surviving relative of Abner Barker,
namely: Graham Stewart, of Brooklyn, N.Y.
Trusting that we may hear from you in case we may be of any service,
we remain,
Yours very truly,
Blackmar, Mathews & Blackmar.
[Illustration: Harrison Fisher's Idea of the Heroine.]
The letter enclosed by Blackmar, Mathews & Blackmar was in a dirty,
home-made, yellow envelope, sealed with five large blobs of red wax.
It read as follows:
Nephew Allen Spencer:--I send you a chart with this letter. If you
are a young man of any energy or ability--which I very much doubt--it
will be worth your while to investigate this chart, and put it to
whatever use it may suggest.
I shall send another chart exactly like this one to Graham Stewart,
of Brooklyn, who is the only other relative to survive me. This
letter will be held by my attorneys until one month after the day of
my death and will then be forwarded to you. I shall watch your use
of it with interest, from the spirit-land. I understand that you are
a frivolous, idle youth, who are not likely to seize your
opportunities.
Your uncle,
Abner Barker.
I unfolded the chart. It was a queer looking thing, carefully drawn
upon yellow wrapping paper. It conjured up recollections of
Stevenson's "Treasure Island" and pictures of savage-looking
buccaneers, and desolate, sandy beaches. There was a square marked
"_House_," with a dotted line running through the middle of it. Then
there were innumerable other spots, and dots, and lines signified
variously. The word "_spring_" was written at one point; "_Lone Palm
Tree_" at another. In the centre of a circle, to which led dotted
lines, my eyes were arrested by the words: "_Treasure buried here_."
I had imagined Uncle Abner a prosaic man; now it seemed I was wrong.
He was a dreamer on his sandy key; he lived with the shades of
corsairs and saw ghostly galleons riding at anchor off his strip of
coast. Poor old Uncle Abner! There was something grimly grotesque
in the situation. One does not associate charts and buried treasure
with a light noon breakfast in a clubhouse on Fifth Avenue.
I think it was a flurry of cold rain upon the window which first
turned my thoughts seriously toward Lone Palm Key. New York is a
beastly place in a January thaw. I imagined the sun shining warmly
at Palm Beach, girls in pretty summer dresses and men in tennis
flannels. Then again I heard the swish of the rain against the
window, and looking out, saw a cab horse slip and fall upon the
asphalt.
"Buried treasure or no buried treasure," I said to myself, "Uncle
Abner has given me a good idea. I'll go to Florida this very
afternoon."
A line from Blackmar, Mathews & Blackmar's letter caught my eye:
----The only other surviving relative of Abner Barker, namely Graham
Stewart, of Brooklyn, N.Y.----
Who was Graham Stewart? I had never heard of him before. Most
probably a relative on the other side of Uncle Abner's family. Had
he received his letter? Perhaps even now he was hurrying South ahead
of me!
I had Henry look up trains at once and sent word upstairs to have my
trunk and bag packed with nice, summery things for Florida.
An hour later, as I drove to the 23rd Street Ferry, and saw the cold
rain streaking down the carriage windows, I felt genuinely grateful
to old Uncle Abner for bequeathing me this excellent excuse for
getting out of town.
After all, there was something like sport in going down to Florida to
look for treasure. The idea appealed to me more and more. I felt
that I was in a race with Graham Stewart. As the Seaboard Florida
Limited drew out of the Pennsylvania Terminal, and started on its run
toward warmth, sunshine and Uncle Abner's treasure--_perhaps_ Uncle
Abner's treasure--I settled myself and began a close inspection of my
fellow-travellers. If Graham Stewart was on the train I wished to
pick him out. And something told me he _was_ on the train. I made a
mental inventory of my fellow-passengers. Was _he_ Graham--that slim
youth in section twelve? He had pale hair and wore glasses, and
looked at though he _might_ live in Brooklyn.
But no; he was calm. Graham would be nervous.
The keen-faced old man in section five was a likelier specimen; men
with gray beards and smooth shaven upper lips are usually seekers for
treasure, either buried or unburied. I leaned forward and tried to
get a glimpse of the letter he was reading, but as I looked he tucked
it away in an inside vest pocket. I would hunt him up later and ply
him with talk of "Treasure Island," old coins and things of that sort.
[Illustration: Sewell Collins' Idea of the Heroine.]
By all odds the most interesting passenger was the girl in section
seven--the girl with the big, blue eyes and long dark fringe for
lashes. Every time I looked at her my interest in the buried
treasure dwindled. I wished that she sat opposite instead of several
sections off, for I have a rather useful set of plans that often
work, when girls sit opposite in Pullman Cars. But alas! How seldom
the pretty girls _do_ sit opposite! I always draw a fat man in a
skull cap, or a wheezy old lady who uses peppermint! There always is
a pretty girl, but she is invariably placed far from where I sit. On
this particular occasion she was so pretty--so very pretty--that I
grew morbid on the subject. What a dull, stupid thing a bachelor
life can be! I have no doubt I stared at her, as I reflected thus,
for presently she brought me to with a frosty little look. Pulling
myself together hastily I went into the combination car to drink and
smoke and think it over--no, not the girl, the buried treasure!
The old man I had picked out for Graham Stewart came in not long
after, and sitting near me, lit a very bad cigar. We drifted into
conversation and, quite casually, I managed to speak of "Treasure
Island."
He said he had never heard of it--or Stevenson.
I told him of the book; of the map in the front of it, that showed
where the gold was hidden. Then I professed great interest in old
coins.
My efforts were rewarded by the strange side-long glance he gave me
and when, shortly after, I began to speak of pirates he left me
suddenly. Later, I noticed the porter and the Pullman Car conductor
regarding me with interest. When, before the trip was over, I gained
the porter's confidence (at reasonable cost) I learned that the old
man with the white whiskers had told them I was crazy--that I talked
wildly of most extraordinary things. Evidently the old boy was not
Uncle Abner's heir, after all.
That evening after dinner I took out the letter and the map and
studied them with care. The more I did so the more ridiculous they
seemed. There is something indescribably grotesque in starting off
to hunt for buried treasure in an electric lighted Limited. I felt
that I ought to be dressed in Oriental togs with a red handkerchief
about my head and a pair of flint-lock pistols in my belt. When the
girl with the long lashes passed and glanced in my direction with
cold, unseeing eyes, I felt more ridiculous than ever. How could a
man hunt gold, I asked myself, with girls like that abroad?
And immediately two impulses seized me.
"Graham Stewart and the treasure be hanged!" I resolved, crumpling
Uncle Abner's chart in my hand. "I'll go back in the Pullman and
have a look at the young lady--even if I can't talk with her."
But as I walked through the train I smoothed out the map and laid it
away in my wallet. When convention and the girl frown, I might as
well have something, I thought, to fall back on.
She was sitting with some magazines in her lap, gazing vacantly into
the night. I passed without apparently noticing her and sat
dejectedly in my section. Man's sadness will awaken a woman's
interest where nothing else will, you know. And before long the
corners of my eyes caught a suspicion of sympathy in her regard, as
if she read trouble in the countenance I was furrowing for her, and
was sorry.
Without seeming to look in her direction I sighed the manliest sigh I
could muster. I seemed to feel her sympathy deepen to pity and
then--crash! Her magazines slid to the floor. I sprang to collect
them for her. But confound these women prigs!--that was all. She
thanked me haughtily, rang for the porter and ordered her berth made
up.
I went forward for a smoke, was drawn into a game, and forgot about
treasure and stingy, sneaking cousins and disagreeable eye-lash girls
until late the next morning.
[Illustration: Leon de Bernebruch's Idea of the Heroine.]
I did feel a good deal hurt, however, when I went by the young person
on my way to breakfast that she didn't seem to know me from the
porter. I cursed civilization that makes Fate and girls cruel, and
stayed away all day to show her I didn't even think of her. I really
did think very little. I was canvassing the train for a
treasure-troving male relative. I satisfied myself he was not
aboard. But the thought of that unapproachable young woman robbed me
somewhat of my gratification.
When we reached Palm Beach I drove directly to the Royal Poinciana.
I rather expected that the girl might be there, too, but I did not
catch sight of her that evening, nor of any man that could possibly
be Graham Stewart.
In the romantic surroundings of the Poinciana the interest of my
quest returned. Down there, the thought of buried treasure did not
seem so strange. Before retiring I ordered a steam launch to take me
to Lone Palm Key at nine o'clock the following morning.
It was ten when I woke up. Hurriedly I dressed and breakfasted, but
it was noon when I set out, first making an arrangement with the
launch's engineer to do some digging for me when we reached the key.
All my eagerness returned as we approached the long, low strip of
land where poor old Uncle Abner lived so many years. A sloop, with
idly flapping sails, lay at anchor near the little landing, telling
me that in all probability my remote connection, Graham Stewart, had
reached the key before me.
I felt genuine excitement mingled with chagrin as we drew near. How
long had he been there? Had he found the treasure? How would he
receive me?
My captain knew the captain of the "Jennie May," and hailed him as we
came alongside.
"What you doin' 'way out here, Cap'n Bill?"
"Got a lady," Captain Bill replied. "She's over there beyond that
sand dune, havin' a picnic all to herself. Didn't say she was
_expectin'_ no one." He eyed me disapprovingly as he spoke.
So it was not Graham Stewart after all! That was a relief, though I
was sorry anyone was there. I should feel foolish digging for Uncle
Abner's treasure if a gull watched me, let alone a girl!
Leaving the engineer to anchor and follow later with the shovels we
had brought, I jumped ashore and hastened up the low sand hill, above
the top of which I saw the lone palm tree from which the key took its
name. From the top I could see old Uncle Abner's shack perhaps a
quarter of a mile away. Then my eye was arrested by a white figure
near the deserted little house. It was the figure of a woman, and
horrors! she was digging in the sand. I hastened on and presently
came up with her. Her back was turned. She did not see me as I
stood for a moment, amused, watching her pathetic efforts with a
funny little shovel, such as is used for putting coals in kitchen
ranges. She was working in a desultory way that plainly showed
discouragement.
"Can I help?" I said to her at last.
With a little cry she dropped her shovel and turned toward me. It
was my turn to be startled. She was the girl of the Seaboard Florida
Limited--the girl with the long lashes!
We stood there staring at each other for a moment. She was
belligerent, resentful; but I saw at once that she remembered me.
"I got here first!" she cried, "it's mine!"
I looked about at the pathetic little holes she had been digging.
"What's yours?" I asked.
"You know!" she exclaimed; "you know well enough. It's the treasure!"
"Well," I said, "Uncle Abner invited me, too."
"But I got here first!" she repeated vehemently.
"You don't seem to have made much of your time," I suggested.
She stooped and picked up her little shovel. "I don't need any
help," she replied.
"Another thing," said I. "I am not sure that you have any right to
be digging here at all; the lawyer's letter said the only other
person beside myself who knew about the treasure was a man named
Graham Stewart."
"A man named Graham Stewart?"
I drew the letter from my pocket and showed her.
"It doesn't say a _man_," she explained; "see, it only says '_namely_
Graham Stewart.'"
"Never mind," said I, "Graham Stewart is a man's name. That's plain
enough. And I don't know whether I ought to stand 'round and let you
rob him this way."
"This way!" she asked, pointing at her little diggings.
"No, not precisely that way," I said, laughing. "You'll have to rob
him worse than that or I don't believe he'll notice it."
"Set your mind at rest," she snapped, "I am Graham Stewart myself!"
"But Graham is a man's name," I protested.
"Do you imagine I have been named Graham all these years," she said,
"without knowing that! Don't you suppose that I get advertising
circulars in every mail, addressed to _Mister_ Graham Stewart?'
Don't you suppose men's tailors and men's haberdashers send me
letters asking for my custom? That name has been a life-long horror
to me! I can never make them believe that I don't want things like
razors and Scotch Whiskey."
"Well, it's a very pretty name," I said lamely. "By the way, don't
you think you received me rather coldly, considering that we are
cousins?"
"We are _not_ cousins!" she cried.
"Oh, yes," I said, "we are. We're sort of cousins anyhow."
"But I don't want to be your cousin," she protested.
"Oh," I said, "don't worry about that. Cousins can marry, especially
if they are not first cousins."
"That is impertinent!" she answered. "Really, I can't talk to you
any longer," and she turned away as if to dig.
"Very well," I said, moving off a step or two; "I am sorry, because I
was just about to show you the spot where you ought to dig. Now I
shall find it by myself."
She gave a little start, but did not answer. I walked over to my
late uncle's house and sitting in the shadow produced the map and
appeared to study it, while the girl went on digging grimly.
"Why didn't you have Captain Bill come up and dig!" I called to her,
as the man from my launch appeared with the shovels.
"I didn't want to let him know about the treasure," she replied. "I
don't think it's safe."
"That's a good idea," said I, taking the shovels from my man and
telling him to return to the boat and await me there.
Again, for a time I watched her delve in silence. What a pretty girl
she was in her trim duck suit! At last I roused myself. I had come
to Lone Palm Key to look for buried treasure and I must begin at
once. The chart was simple enough, now that I was on the ground. I
had but to pace off twenty steps of an imaginary line running through
the centre of Uncle Abner's shack, toward the lone palm tree to point
"A"; then, going to the spring a few rods behind the house I must
pace off twenty-seven more in the direction of the palm tree, thus
establishing the point "B," upon the map. To find point "C," I had
merely to reach a spot equidistant between points "A" and "B." Here
the treasure should be buried.
I rose at once and paced it out, noting as I did so that "the only
other surviving relative" watched me with ill concealed anxiety.
When I felt sure that I had found point "C," I threw my coat upon the
sand, seized a shovel and began to dig. Watching Graham (some forty
feet away) from the corner of my eye, I presently discovered that she
was coming toward me. I dug more vigorously than ever, affecting not
to notice her as she stood by and watched me. At last she spoke.
"I don't think," she ventured, "I _really_ don't think you're digging
in exactly the right place." Her voice betrayed no certainty,
however.
"I'm satisfied," I said. "You let me dig here and you can have all
the rest of the key for your own purposes."
She was silent for a time. "I thought perhaps"--she said at last,
her voice quavering, "I thought that I might help you."
"Oh, I'm a pretty good digger, thanks," said I.
"Don't you think," she said, "that our maps may not be just alike?"
"Oh, _my_ map is all right," I answered.'
After watching me for a moment more: "I'm completely worn out," she
said, "digging here all day in the hot sun. I think I'll have to
go." She turned and walked a step or two, then:
"I am _hungry_, too," she added weakly.
"I'm sorry," I replied. "But you know when I came up at first,
wanting to help you, you sent me off about my business."
"Yes," she answered sadly, "I did, and it was rude. I am sorry. But
I did want that treasure so much!"
I could resist her no longer when I saw that there were tears in
those big eyes of hers.
"Suppose," I suggested, "we make it partners?"
"Oh, would you?" she exclaimed, advancing eagerly.
"Yes," I said, "if you'll do just what I tell you to."
"Wait!" she cried, "I'll get my shovel."
"No," I said, "you're not to dig; I'll do that. You're to go down to
my launch and eat. I brought a lunch basket along. How could a
hungry man find buried treasure, or a hungry woman, either?"
"You're awfully, awfully generous," she smiled, "but let me stay here
for a while and watch you. I'm sure you'll find the treasure before
long. Then we can go and eat _together_."
"Delighted," I said. "Your presence will encourage me. You're the
sort of a partner to spur a man to do his best."
"Thanks," she answered, and I thought she flushed a little.
She watched me as I dug silently and perspiringly for the better part
of half an hour. From the treasure-hunting stories I had read I knew
exactly what sound to expect when my spade should scrape against the
casket in which the treasure lay. When I had reached a depth of
perhaps four feet, the work grew tiresome. Graham stirred about
uneasily. At last she spoke. "Would you mind listening to a
suggestion from your partner?" she inquired.
I was glad of an opportunity to stop digging.
"No, indeed," I answered, resting on my shovel and looking up at her.
"How tall are you?" she asked, it seemed to me irrelevantly.
"Twenty-nine--I mean five-feet-eleven-and-a-half," I answered. "How
old are you?"
She gave me a cool glance. "I don't think my age has any bearing on
the matter," she replied with dignity.
"You asked _me_ a leading question," I plead.
"Don't be silly," she said. "Listen; it occurs to me that you are
much taller than our common uncle was, and----"
"He _was_ common," I interrupted, "it took a common mind to devise a
miserable trick like this!"
"Mr. Spencer," she said sharply, "do you wish to hear what I have to
say, or do you not?"
"Partner," I replied contritely, "I _do_, and I beg a thousand
pardons for interrupting with my foolish prattle."
"A fitting apology," Graham said, with what seemed to me an effort at
severity. "What I have been trying to suggest was this: You are
almost six feet tall. Uncle Abner was much shorter; also he was old.
Is it not possible that you have paced off longer steps than he took?"
"Bully!" I cried, scrambling out of the pit which I had digged.
"You're a partner to be proud of!"
"I should think," she ventured, "that my steps would give about the
right measure. I had the map worked out all wrong; it remained for
you to solve _that_ part. But I'm awfully glad to be of some use in
the partnership."
She picked up her dainty skirts and paced the distance off, I
standing by, meanwhile, to watch her graceful movements and her trim,
pretty feet. The point which she ultimately reached was several
yards nearer the hut than where my hole was dug.
Somewhat cooler from the short cessation of my labors, I now pitched
in anew. Two feet; three feet; three-and-a-half. Was this to be
another false scent? When I reached a depth of about four feet I
paused and looked at her.
Her eyes were big and bright. She shook her head as though to say:
"A little farther."
Again I plunged my spade into the damp sand. I thrilled all through
as I felt it scrape against something hard--something metallic! Two
more shovelfuls and I had disclosed the object. I picked it up and
held it out to Graham. Despite our eagerness we burst into a gale of
laughter. It was a tomato can--quite empty, too!
Graham's laughter stopped suddenly. "Oh!" she gasped, "how did it
_get_ there? We are on the right track! Uncle Abner must have
thrown it in when he buried the treasure!"
"Great!" I cried, and then in sudden afterthought: "unless----!"
"Unless----?"
"Unless," I said, "unless _someone else_ has been here before us!"
She looked into my eyes with horror at the thought, twisting her
handkerchief nervously in her slender hands.
"Heavens!" she exclaimed, "you _do_ think of the most unpleasant
things!" Then, waving her arms excitedly. "Dig!" she cried. "For
goodness' sake, dig! Let's have this suspense over with!"
I did dig and presently my industry was rewarded by the discovery of
an empty beer bottle and a sardine can.
"Uncle Abner lived high, out here on the key," I said, holding the
trophies up for her inspection.
"Dig! Dig!" was her only answer.
Again I got to work. This time I suppose I dug for three-quarters of
an hour. The hole grew quite deep, but disclosed not so much as a
buried button. I was very warm and very hungry. So I pronounced
myself exhausted and asked Graham if she wouldn't let me rest a
minute.
She said I could, so we got the captains to bring up my lunch basket
and Graham's parasol from the boats. Then we settled down to a
little spread on the spot. We fastened the parasol to a shovel
handle and Graham let me sit down beside her in the shade. I've
never had such fun lunching as on that day. The sandwiches were so
good and Graham and the ginger ale so refreshing thas I was
heart-broken when there wasn't a drop or a crumb or an excuse to sit
there any longer.
So I dug again, and we were such friends by that time that Graham
kept telling me not to work too hard and get all tired out. After a
few moments she gave a little scream of delight and leaning over
picked a corroded coin from the shovelful I had thrown out. I took
it from her and rubbed its surface. It looked like a Mexican dollar,
but I couldn't make out.
"Oh, won't you dig?" cried Graham, in an agony of impatience.
Once more I thrust my spade into the sand. It stopped suddenly.
This time it was neither can nor bottle, but something which toon
proved to be a sound oak plank. A few mad spadefuls more and it was
clear that the plank was the cover of a heavy box, cleated, bound and
hinged with iron.
Graham stood above me gazing down with clenched hands and dilated
eyes.
The box was wedged so fast in the sand that when I first tried to
lift it I mistook the sand's firm grip for the weight of gold within.
After some fifteen minutes' rapid work I managed to dig it clear.
But when I lifted it my heart sank. It was very light!
I tossed it out of the hole as easily as I could have tossed an empty
steamer trunk. It fell upon its side and the cover dropped open,
revealing the interior. I leaped from the hole and stood beside
Graham. She was staring fixedly at the box and as I came near her
she reached out and steadied herself by placing her hand upon my arm.
Alas! for our dream of buried treasure! Save for one object, the box
was empty. Rushing forward I reached in and drew that object forth.
It was a New York newspaper, more than a year old and wrapped within
it was a Seaboard Air Line timetable, of equally ancient date.
These pathetic relics I placed in Graham's hands. She stared at them
blankly.
"Well, partner," I said, "there's the treasure! I make you a free
gift of my half of it."
The comedy of it all burst in on me now. The lawyer's pedantic
letter. Uncle Abner's chart and acid note to me, my race with
Graham--Graham, whom I had mistaken for a gray-bearded old man upon
the train--my meeting with her lovely self upon the key, our
partnership and its result. I laughed, and laughed, and laughed,
until I nearly fell into the pit that I had digged. Then
suddenly--quite as suddenly as I had begun--I stopped, for I saw
Graham. What a selfish beast a man can be! Could I not have
foreseen that this insane treasure hunt which was little more than
sport to me, might to Graham be a vitally important thing? What did
I know of her circumstances? What right had I to conclude that
she----? Outlined sharply against the sunset sky I saw her swaying
where she stood. There were tears in her eyes. I hurried to her and
she leaned against me weakly.
"I am sorry," I said, "awfully, awfully sorry!"
She looked at me and tried to smile. "I am glad," she said in a
quavering voice, "I am glad that you can laugh. I wish _I_ could."
"Try!" I begged, "oh, please do try! I love you when you laugh--when
you _don't_ laugh, too, of course--but really, Graham, really! I
cannot bear to see you cry!"
I don't know just how I got them, but I suddenly found that I was
holding both her hands, as I entreated. I don't think she knew it
any more than I did when I took them.
"Don't feel badly about it!" I begged her. "What's the use? You
must see that it's a joke--a joke on both of us. Either someone got
here first and took the treasure off, or Uncle Abner thought he'd
have post-mortem fun with his surviving relatives. You see, Graham,"
(I think I may have said "Graham _dear_") "you see the joke, don't
you?"
"The wicked old man!" she cried. "It's no joke to me. It comes near
a tragedy! It cost me almost everything I had to come here. If
that's a joke, I call it a hard one!" She was radiant in her anger.
I was spell-bound as I watched her.
[Illustration: Will Grefé's Idea of the Heroine.]
"That is tough," I exclaimed, "you have no idea how sorry I
am--honestly you haven't!" I think I must have squeezed her hands,
for she looked at them and drew them from mine with a conscious
little blush.
"Don't you think we'd better be going to the boats?" she ventured.
"It's after sunset."
"Since you put it as a question, no!" I answered. "I see no reason
why we should go to the boats. As for the sunset, they have these
every night down here; but you and I don't meet every day upon this
key. We ought to make the most of it!"
"But it's all done--the treasure hunt," she said, digging a little
hole in the sand with the toe of her white canvas shoe.
"It's _not_ all done!" I cried. "_Yours_ may be finished, but mine
is just beginning and I give you fair warning, here and now, dear
Graham," (I said the "dear" quite plainly this time), "that this
_new_ treasure hunt of mine is going to make the old one look like
the picnic party it was!"
"Really--really----" she began.
"Yes, really!" I exclaimed.
"I assure you," she faltered; "I assure you, I don't know--I don't
know what you----"
"Oh, Graham, Graham!" I cried, "you've been reading novels. That's
what girls always say in novels--'I don't know what you mean.' Yet,
they all _do_ know what he means, just as well as you know what _I_
mean!"
The digging she was doing with her little slipper interested her more
than ever now.
"Graham," I continued, "whether you knew or not, I would have told
you what I meant. I wouldn't lose the luxury of telling you, for
worlds! This is it: I came here to hunt for treasure----"
"_Buried_ treasure?" she inquired, smiling faintly at the toe of her
white slipper.
"But we didn't find the buried treasure," I pleaded. "_You_ found
nothing but me--to help you dig. But _I_ discovered something more
than buried treasure. I found out where there was a treasure--a
living treasure--greater than jewels and gold could ever be! It's a
treasure I can't reach by digging in the sand, Graham. It must be
given to me freely, and by you!"
She was silent for a moment, then she faced me.
"It's because you're sorry for me," she said, flushing; "I thank you,
but I can't accept a sacrifice like that!"
"No, dear Graham," I persisted, "it's not because I'm sorry for you.
I'll be sorry for you, though, if you don't take me now--sorry to see
you dogged, and pestered, and followed everywhere, and worshipped by
a man like me, until you have to take him to avoid his persistence!"
She smiled at me frankly. "You have no idea," she laughed, "how I
long to say 'This is so sudden,' but after 'I don't know what you
mean,' I am afraid to!"
"Do save yourself a lot of trouble," I warned again, "by taking me
now, Graham, instead of waiting until I get you."
"I suppose," she said, "I suppose I might at well."
I shan't tell you what happened then, but in my haste to do something
(mind I don't say what) I almost tumbled into Uncle Abner's treasure
pit.
* * * * *
The "Jennie May" sailed home, a little later, without the passenger
she had brought to Lone Palm Key. Graham and I returned in the steam
launch. When I insisted that the only two surviving relatives of
Uncle Abner be made one at once, Graham said--you know what she said,
as well as I do. She simply couldn't help it. It was:
"But, really, this is so sudden!"
END
[Illustration: C. D. Williams' Idea of the Heroine.]
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