My Buried Treasure | Page 8

he
had purchased our tickets, and, as a hint that I should not disturb him,

he stuffed into my hands the latest magazines. "At least tell me this," I
demanded. "Have you ever been to this place before to-day?"
"0nce," said Edgar shortly, "last week. That's when I found out I would
need some one with me who could dig."
"How do you know it's the RIGHT place?" I whispered.
The summer season was over, and of the chair car we were the only
occupants; but, before he answered, Edgar looked cautiously round him
and out of the window. We had just passed Red Bank.
"Because the map told me," he answered. "Suppose," he continued
fretfully, "you had a map of New York City with the streets marked on
it plainly? Suppose the map said that if you walked to where Broadway
and Fifth Avenue meet, you would find the Flatiron Building. Do you
think you could find it?"
"Was it as easy as THAT?" I gasped.
"It was as easy as THAT!" said Edgar.
I sank back into my chair and let the magazines slide to the floor. What
fiction story was there in any one of them so enthralling as the actual
possibilities that lay before me? In two hours I might be bending over a
pot of gold, a sea chest stuffed with pearls and rubies!
I began to recall all the stories I had heard as a boy of treasure buried
along the coast by Kidd on his return voyage from the Indies. Where
along the Jersey sea-line were there safe harbors? The train on which
we were racing south had its rail head at Barnegat Bay. And between
Barnegat and Red Bank there now was but one other inlet, that of the
Manasquan River. It might be Barnegat; it might be Manasquan. It
could not be a great distance from either; toward the ocean down a
broad, sandy road. The season had passed and the windows of the
cottages and bungalows on either side of the road were barricaded with
planks. On the verandas hammocks abandoned to the winds hung in
tatters, on the back porches the doors of empty refrigerators swung

open on one hinge, and on every side above the fields of gorgeous
golden-rod rose signs reading "For Rent." When we had progressed in
silence for a mile, the sandy avenue lost itself in the deeper sand of the
beach, and the horse of his own will came to a halt.
On one side we were surrounded by locked and deserted bathing houses,
on the other by empty pavilions shuttered and barred against the winter,
but still inviting one to 'Try our salt water taffy" or to "Keep cool with
an ice-cream soda." Rupert turned and looked inquiringly at Edgar. To
the north the beach stretched in an unbroken line to Manasquan Inlet.
To the south three miles away we could see floating on the horizon-like
a mirage the hotels and summer cottages of Bay Head.
"Drive toward the inlet," directed Edgar. "This gentleman and I will
walk."
Relieved of our weight, the horse stumbled bravely into the trackless
sand, while below on the damper and firmer shingle we walked by the
edge of the water.
The tide was coming in and the spent waves, spreading before them an
advance guard of tiny shells and pebbles, threatened our boots' and at
the same time in soothing, lazy whispers warned us of their attack.
These lisping murmurs and the crash and roar of each incoming wave
as it broke were the only sounds. And on the beach we were the only
human figures. At last the scene began to bear some resemblance to one
set for an adventure. The rolling ocean, a coast steamer dragging a
great column of black smoke, and cast high upon the beach the wreck
of a schooner, her masts tilting drunkenly, gave color to our purpose. It
became filled with greater promise of drama, more picturesque. I began
to thrill with excitement. I regarded Edgar appealingly, in eager
supplication. At last he broke the silence that was torturing me.
"We will now walk higher up," he commanded. "If we get our feet wet,
we may take cold."
My spirit was too far broken to make reply. But to my relief I saw that
in leaving the beach Edgar had some second purpose. With each heavy

step he was drawing toward two high banks of sand in a hollow behind
which, protected by the banks, were three stunted, wind-driven pines.
His words came back to me.
"So many what-you-may-call-'ems." Were these pines the three
somethings from something, the what-you-may-call-'ems? The thought
chilled me to the spine. I gazed at them fascinated. I felt like falling on
my knees in the sand and tearing