THE WRITING FOUND IN A BOTTLE.
Let me assure the readers, at the beginning of this sketch, that it isstrictly true in every particular. I have no ambition to shine as awriter of fiction, and, at the request of a number of friendsacquainted with the remarkable circumstances, have sat down to relate,in a straightforward manner as is at my command; the part that I tookin the history of the famous _Buried Treasure_.
Not the least singular part of this strange business was that, of thethree individuals concerned two were boys, one being my son Frank(named for his father) and a playmate, Arthur Newman. The latter wasthirteen years old, while Frank was only a few months his senior.
They were inseparable playmates from early childhood; and as we livednear a broad, deep inlet, which put in from the Atlantic, they learnedto swim at the age of ten, and soon learned to manage a yacht as wellas veterans. I was sometimes anxious because of their venturesomedisposition, but although they frequently ventured outside, sometimesin very nasty weather, no accident ever befell them, and the parents ofboth boys gradually learned to dismiss all fear concerning them, underthe belief that, as they grew older, they became better fitted to takecare of themselves.
One day in March Frank told me that a suspicious brig had been standingoff shore for the better part of a week, and he and Arthur had come tothe conclusion that it was a pirate. I laughed heartily at theirfancy, and assured them that the days of buccaneers and sea rovers werelong since past, and they must dismiss all such absurd ideas from theirminds.
The following week the Atlantic sea-board was devastated by one of thefiercest storms that had been known for years. Reports of wrecks anddisasters to shipping reached us for several days after, and Frankremarked one evening at supper that he believed his suspected piratewas one of the unfortunate vessels that had gone down with all onboard. I smiled at his words, but when I learned that the beach wasstrewn with wreckage, and that a great deal of it had washed into theinlet, I thought it probable that he was right, so far as the fate ofthe strange ship was concerned.
It was near the close of the month that my boy brought home a tightlycorked bottle, which he and Arthur had found while cruising in theinlet. When he said that there was a piece of rolled paper inside, Ifelt enough curiosity to withdraw the stopper with the aid of a strongcorkscrew, and to make an examination.
Sure enough there was a small roll of thick, vellum-like paper, onwhich, in a cramped hand, evidently written years before, was thefollowing:
"_Three feet under the Beacon Tree_."
For a minute or two I was puzzled, and then, as if by inspiration, thewhole truth burst upon me.
The Beacon Tree was the name of an immense poplar that stood near themouth of the inlet. The fish-hawks had builded their nests in theforked tops for a half century. I remember hearing my father say itwas struck by lightning long before and although its upper brancheswere shattered, and it had been as dead as a fence-post ever since, yetits immense size, great height, and peculiar, silver-like appearancecaused it to become a prominent landmark to the vessels whenapproaching the coast, and long before I was born it gained the name ofthe Beacon Tree, by which title it was known to unnumbered hundreds ofsailors and sea-faring men.
"There is a treasure buried under that tree," I said to Frank,suppressing my excitement so far as I could. "More than likely it wasplaced there by some freebooter a long time ago, and these people wereawaiting a chance to dig it up."
"Maybe Captain Kidd buried it," suggested the boy.
"Possibly he did, for there is reason to believe that he hid a greatdeal of treasure along the Atlantic coast. Now, since Arthur was withyou when you found this bottle, he has the same claim to the treasurethat you have. We will not say anything to his father, and you musttake particular care not to give a hint to a living soul. Go over andtell Arthur to come here this evening. I will furnish the shovels andlantern, and when we are sure that no one will see us, we will slipover to the Beacon Tree and dig."
I recall that I was never so absolutely sure of anything in my life asI was that valuable treasure lay buried under the old poplar. My wife,to whom I showed the little roll of paper, expressed a doubt, andsmilingly hinted that perhaps I was too much impressed by thatbrilliant sketch of Edgar A. Poe called "The Gold Bug."
"Of course," I answered, "disappointment may await us, and I know thesebottles picked up at sea are frequently frauds; but the age of thewriting and the peculiar circumstances convince me that this isgenuine. I am sure _something_ will be found under the Beacon Tree."
Meantime Frank had hurried off to acquaint Arthur with the amazingdiscovery, and to warn him against dropping a hint to any one. My sonsoon returned with the word that his friend was "b'iling" withexcitement, but alas! his parents were going to spend that evening witha neighbor, and since they would not be back until late, there was nopossible way of his joining us.
The boys were not more disappointed than I, and the impulse was strongupon me to make the venture without the help of Arthur, meaning, ofcourse that such a proceeding should not affect his share in the find;but it did not strike me that that would be exactly right, and Arthurwas informed that we three would attend to the business the followingevening.
I could not avoid strolling out to the Beacon Tree the next day. I didso in the most off-hand manner and with the most unconcerned expressionI could assume; but had any one scrutinized my countenance, I am surehe would easily have detected the deep agitation under which I waslaboring.
I was considerably disturbed, upon examining the immediate surroundingsof the tree, to discover signs which looked as if some one had beendigging there quite recently.
"The secret has become known and the treasure has been carried off," Igasped, with a rapidly throbbing heart.
Reflection, however, reassured me. No one had seen the writing in thebottle beside myself (though evidently it must have been known toothers), and it was certain that if any person had succeeded inunearthing the hidden wealth, he would not have taken the trouble tohide all signs with such extreme care. Closer examination, too,convinced me there had been no digging about the tree at all. And yetI was mistaken.
We three reached the old poplar the next evening between ten and eleveno'clock. Arthur had escaped inquiry by slipping out of his bedroomwindow after bidding his parents good-night; and, inasmuch as thelantern which I carried was not lit until we arrived at the tree, wewere confident of escaping attention. Still I watched sharply, and wasgreatly relieved to discover no persons abroad at that hour besideourselves.
Since the treasure was located but three feet below the surface, insandy soil, I brought only one shovel, while the boys watched me, oneholding the lantern, and both casting furtive glances around to guardagainst eavesdroppers. It would be useless to deny my excitement. Myheart at times throbbed painfully, and more than once I was on thepoint of ceasing until I could regain mastery of myself.
"Pop, you must be nearly deep enough," said Frank, in a guardedundertone.
"I'm pretty near to the place," I replied stopping a minute to draw myhandkerchief across my perspiring forehead.
"I'm afraid there's somebody watching us," added Arthur.
"Where?" I asked in affright, staring around in the gloom.
"I thought I saw a man moving out yonder."
"Well, it's too late for him to interfere now," I said, compressing mylips and renewing my digging more determinedly than ever; "I carry arevolver with me, and I don't mean to be robbed."
The next moment my heart gave a great throb, for the shovel strucksomething hard.
"Hold the lantern down here, Frank, quick!" I commanded in a hoarsevoice.
He obeyed, but to my disappointment the object proved to be a largestone.
"I guess it's under that," I whispered, stopping work for a moment.
"Pop, there's another piece of paper," said Frank.
I stooped over and picked it up. I saw that there was writing on it,and holding it up beside
the lantern read:
"Dig three feet under the Beacon Tree and you will be an April fool."
Once again the truth flashed across me. The whole thing was apractical joke.
"Boys," said I, "what day of the month is this?"
They reflected a moment and answered:
"Why, it's the first of April."
"Let's go home," I added, stepping out of the excavation, "and here's ahalf a dollar apiece if you don't tell anybody about it."
As we moved mournfully away I was sure I heard a chuckling laughsomewhere near in the darkness, but the author of it was prudent enoughto keep beyond reach.
It was not until three months afterward that I learned all the factsconnected with the writing found in a bottle. My neighbor, the fatherof Arthur Newman, on whom I had played several jokes, adopted thismeans of retaliating on me. He took my son and his own into hisconfidence, and I am grieved to say that the young rascals were just aseager as he. When I proposed to make the search on the last day ofMarch, my friend resorted to the subterfuge I have mentioned, so as toinsure that it should not take place until the following evening, whichwas unquestionably appropriate for my first and last essay in diggingfor buried treasure.