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25 pages

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pubOne.info present you this new edition. This is a true story of a search for buried treasure. The only part that is not true is the name of the man with whom I searched for the treasure. Unless I keep his name out of it he will not let me write the story, and, as it was his expedition and as my share of the treasure is only what I can make by writing the story, I must write as he dictates. I think the story should be told, because our experience was unique, and might be of benefit to others. And, besides, I need the money.

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Short story

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Publié par	Pub One Info
Date de parution	06 novembre 2010
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9782819934677
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0050€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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MY BURIED TREASURE
by Richard Harding Davis
This is a true story of a search for buriedtreasure. The only part that is not true is the name of the manwith whom I searched for the treasure. Unless I keep his name outof it he will not let me write the story, and, as it was hisexpedition and as my share of the treasure is only what I can makeby writing the story, I must write as he dictates. I think thestory should be told, because our experience was unique, and mightbe of benefit to others. And, besides, I need the money.
There is, however, no agreement preventing me fromdescribing him as I think he is, or reporting, as accurately as Ican, what he said and did as he said and did it.
For purposes of identification I shall call himEdgar Powell. The last name has no significance; but the first nameis not chosen at random. The leader of our expedition, the head andbrains of it, was and is the sort of man one would address asEdgar. No one would think of calling him “Ed, ” or “Eddie, ” anymore than he would consider slapping him on the back.
We were together at college; but, as six hundredother boys were there at the same time, that gives no clew to hisidentity. Since those days, until he came to see me about thetreasure, we had not met. All I knew of him was that he hadsucceeded his father in manufacturing unshrinkable flannels. Ofcourse, the reader understands that is not the article of commercehe manufactures; but it is near enough, and it suggests the line ofbusiness to which he gives his life's blood. It is not similar tomy own line of work, and in consequence, when he wrote me, on theunshrinkable flannels official writing-paper, that he wished to seeme in reference to a matter of business of “mutual benefit, ” I wasconsiderably puzzled.
A few days later, at nine in the morning, an hour ofhis own choosing, he came to my rooms in New York City.
Except that he had grown a beard, he was as Iremembered him, thin and tall, but with no chest, and stoopingshoulders. He wore eye-glasses, and as of old through these heregarded you disapprovingly and warily as though he suspected youmight try to borrow money, or even joke with him. As with Edgar Ihad never felt any temptation to do either, this wasirritating.
But from force of former habit we greeted each otherby our first names, and he suspiciously accepted a cigar. Then,after fixing me both with his eyes and with his eye-glasses andswearing me to secrecy, he began abruptly.
“Our mills, ” he said, “are in New Bedford; and Iown several small cottages there and in Fairhaven. I rent them outat a moderate rate. The other day one of my tenants, a Portuguesesailor, was taken suddenly ill and sent for me. He had made manyvoyages in and out of Bedford to the South Seas, whaling, and hetold me on his last voyage he had touched at his former home atTeneriffe. There his grandfather had given him a document that hadbeen left him by his father. His grandfather said it contained animportant secret, but one that was of value only in America, andthat when he returned to that continent he must be very careful towhom he showed it. He told me it was written in a kind of Englishhe could not understand, and that he had been afraid to let any onesee it. He wanted me to accept the document in payment of the renthe owed me, with the understanding that I was not to look at it,and that if he got well I was to give it back. If he pulledthrough, he was to pay me in some other way; but if he died I wasto keep the document. About a month ago he died, and I examined thepaper. It purports to tell where there is buried a pirate'streasure. And, ” added Edgar, gazing at me severely and as thoughhe challenged me to contradict him, “I intend to dig for it! ”
Had he told me he contemplated crossing the RockyMountains in a Baby Wright, or leading a cotillon, I could not havebeen more astonished. I am afraid I laughed aloud.
“You! ” I exclaimed. “Search for buried treasure?”
My tone visibly annoyed him. Even the eye-glassesradiated disapproval.
“I see nothing amusing in the idea, ” Edgarprotested coldly. “It is a plain business proposition. I find theoutlay will be small, and if I am successful the returns should belarge; at a rough estimate about one million dollars. ”
Even to-day, no true American, at the thought of onemillion dollars, can remain covered. His letter to me had said,“for our mutual benefit. ” I became respectful and polite, I mighteven say abject. After all, the ties that bind us in those dear oldcollege days are not lightly to be disregarded.
“If I can be of any service to you, Edgar, old man,” I assured him heartily, “if I can help you find it, you know Ishall be only too happy. ” With regret I observed that my generousoffer did not seem to deeply move him.
“I came to you in this matter, ” he continuedstiffly, “because you seemed to be the sort of person who would beinterested in a search for buried treasure. ”
“I am, ” I exclaimed. “Always have been. ”
“Have you, ” he demanded searchingly, “any practicalexperience? ”
I tried to appear at ease; but I knew then just howthe man who applies to look after your furnace feels, when you askhim if he can also run a sixty horse-power dynamo.
“I have never actually FOUND any buried treasure, ”I admitted; “but I know where lots of it is, and I know just how togo after it. ” I endeavored to dazzle him with expertknowledge.
“Of course, ” I went on airily, “I am familiar withall the expeditions that have tried for the one on Cocos Island,and I know all about the Peruvian treasure on Trinidad, and thelost treasures of Jalisco near Guadalajara, and the sunken galleonon the Grand Cayman, and when I was on the Isle of Pines I hadseveral very tempting offers to search there. And the late CaptainBoynton invited me— — ”
“But, ” interrupted Edgar in a tone that wouldtolerate no trifling, “you yourself have never financed ororganized an expedition with the object in view of— — ”
“Oh, that part's easy! ” I assured him. “Thefitting-out part you can safely leave to me. ” I assumed aconfidence that I hoped he might believe was real. “There's alwaysa tramp steamer in the Erie Basin, ” I said, “that one can charterfor any kind of adventure, and I have the addresses of enoughsoldiers of fortune, filibusters, and professional revolutioniststo man a battle-ship, all fine fellows in a tight corner. And I'llpromise you they'll follow us to hell, and back— — ”
“That! ” exclaimed Edgar, “is exactly what I feared!”
“I beg your pardon! ” I exclaimed.
“That's exactly what I DON'T want, ” said Edgarsternly. “I don't INTEND to get into any tight corners. I don'tWANT to go to hell! ”
I saw that in my enthusiasm I had perhaps alarmedhim. I continued more temperately.
“Any expedition after treasure, ” I pointed out, “isnever without risk. You must have discipline, and you must havepicked men. Suppose there's a mutiny? Suppose they try to rob us ofthe treasure on our way home? We must have men we can rely on, andmen who know how to pump a Winchester. I can get you both. AndBannerman will furnish me with anything from a pair of leggins to aquick firing gun, and on Clark Street they'll quote me a specialrate on ship stores, hydraulic pumps, divers' helmets— — ”
Edgar's eye-glasses became frosted with cold,condemnatory scorn. He shook his head disgustedly.
“I was afraid of this! ” he murmured.
I endeavored to reassure him.
“A little danger, ” I laughed, “only adds to thefun. ”
“I want you to understand, ” exclaimed Edgarindignantly, “there isn't going to be any danger. There isn't goingto be any fun. This is a plain business proposition. I asked youthose questions just to test you. And you approached the matterexactly as I feared you would. I was prepared for it. In fact, ” heexplained shamefacedly, “I've read several of your little stories,and I find they run to adventure and blood and thunder; they arenot of the analytical school of fiction. Judging from them, ” headded accusingly, “you have a tendency to the romantic. ” He spokereluctantly as though saying I had a tendency to epileptic fits orthe morphine habit.
“I am afraid, ” I was forced to admit, “that to mepirates and buried treasure always suggest adventure. And yourcriticism of my writings is well observed. Others have discoveredthe same fatal weakness. We cannot all, ” I pointed out,“manufacture unshrinkable flannels. ”
At this compliment to his more fortunate condition,Edgar seemed to soften.
“I grant you, ” he said, “that the subject hasalmost invariably been approached from the point of view you take.And what, ” he demanded triumphantly, “has been the result?Failure, or at least, before success was attained, a mostunnecessary and regrettable loss of blood and life. Now, on myexpedition, I do not intend that any blood shall be shed, or thatanybody shall lose his life. I have not entered into this matterhastily. I have taken out information, and mean to benefit by otherpeople's mistakes. When I decided to go on with this, ” heexplained, "I read all the books that bear on searches for buriedtreasure, and I found that in each case the same mistakes weremade, and that then, in order to remedy the mistakes, it wasinvariably necessary to kill somebody. Now, by not making thosemistakes, it will not be necessary for me to kill any one, andnobody is going to have a chance to kill me.
“You propose that we fit out a schooner and sign ona crew. What will happen? A man with a sabre cut across hisforehead, or with a black patch over one eye, will inevitably beone of that crew. And, as soon as we sail, he will at once begin toplot against us. A cabin boy who the conspirators think is asleepin his bunk will overhear their plot and will run to thequarter-deck to give warning; but a pistol shot rings out, and thecabin boy falls at the foot of the companion ladder. The cabin boyis always the first one to go. After that the mutineers kill thefirst mate, and lock us in our c