The Island Treasure, by John 
Conroy Hutcheson 
 
The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Island Treasure, by John Conroy 
Hutcheson This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and 
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Title: The Island Treasure 
Author: John Conroy Hutcheson 
Illustrator: W S Stacey 
Release Date: October 21, 2007 [EBook #23141] 
Language: English 
Character set encoding: ASCII 
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE 
ISLAND TREASURE *** 
 
Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England 
 
The Island Treasure 
or The Black Man's Ghost
by John Conroy Hutcheson. 
CHAPTER ONE. 
OFF THE TUSKAR LIGHT. 
"All hands take in sail!" 
"Stand by y'r tops'l halliards!" 
"Let go!" 
Sharply shouted out in quick succession came these orders from 
Captain Snaggs, the hoarse words of command ringing through the ship 
fore and aft, and making even the ringbolts in the deck jingle--albeit 
they were uttered in a sort of drawling voice, that had a strong nasal 
twang, as if the skipper made as much use of his nose as of his mouth 
in speaking. This impression his thin and, now, tightly compressed lips 
tended to confirm; while his hard, angular features and long, pointed, 
sallow face, closely shaven, saving as to the projecting chin, which a 
sandy-coloured billy-goat beard made project all the more, gave him 
the appearance of a man who had a will of his own, aye, and a temper 
of his own, too, should anyone attempt to smooth him down the wrong 
way, or, in sea parlance, "run foul of his hawse!" 
Captain Snaggs did not look particularly amiable at the present 
moment. 
Standing by the break of the poop, with his lean, lanky body half bent 
over the rail, he was keeping one eye out to windward, whence he had 
just caught sight in time of the coming squall, looking down below the 
while at the hands in the waist jumping briskly to their stations and 
casting off the halliards with a will, almost before the last echo of his 
shout `let go!' had ceased to roar in their ears; and yet the captain's gaze 
seemed to gleam beyond these, over their heads and away forwards, to 
where Jan Steenbock, the second-mate, a dark-haired Dane, was 
engaged rousing out the port watch, banging away at the fo'c's'le 
hatchway and likewise shouting, in feeble imitation of the skipper's
roar,-- 
"All ha-ands, ahoy! Doomble oop, my mans, and take in ze sail! 
Doomble oop!" 
But the men, who had only been relieved a short time before by the 
starboard watch, and had gone below for their dinner when `eight bells' 
were struck, seemed rather loth at turning out again so soon for duty, 
the more especially as their caterer had just brought from the cook's 
galley the mess kid, full of some savoury compound, the appetising 
odour of which filled the air, and, being wafted upwards from below, 
made even the swarthy second-mate feel hungry, as he peered down the 
hatchway and called out to the laggards to come on deck. 
"It vas goot, ja," murmured Jan Steenbock to himself, wiping his 
watering mouth with the back of his jacket sleeve and sniffing up a 
prolonged sniff of the odorous stew. "It vas goot, ja, and hart to leaf ze 
groob; but ze sheeps cannot wait, my mans; zo doomble oop dere! 
Doomble oop!" 
Captain Snaggs, however, his watchful weather eye and quick 
intelligence taking in everything at a glance, liked the second-mate's 
slowness of speech and action as little as he relished the men's evident 
reluctance at hurrying up again on deck; for, although barely a second 
or two had elapsed from his first order to the crew, he grew as angry as 
if it had been a "month of Sundays," his sallow face flushing with red 
streaks and his sandy billy-goat beard bristling like wire, every hair on 
end, just as a cat's tail swells at the sight of a strange dog in its 
immediate vicinity when it puts up its back. 
"Avast thaar, ye durned fule!" he screamed in his passion, dancing 
about the poop and bringing his fist down with a resounding thump on 
the brass rail, as if the inanimate material represented for the nonce the 
back of the mate, whom he longed to belabour. "Guess one'd think ye 
wer coaxin' a lot o' wummen folk to come to a prayer-meetin'! Why 
don't ye go down in the fo'c's'le an' drive 'em up, if they won't come on 
deck when they're hailed? Below thaar, d'ye haar?--all hands reef 
tops'ls!"
This shout, which the captain yelled out in a voice of thunder, finally 
fetched the dawdlers on    
    
		
	
	
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