CHAPTER XII
A CURIOUS OLD JOURNAL
"OH, here's a bundle of letters, ever and ever so old!" called Grace.Hers was the first find of interest, "Wouldn't it be splendid if I hadunearthed an old romance?"
"Give them to Olive," suggested Bab. "We have no right to read them."
Grace promptly handed the packet to Olive, who turned them overreflectively.
"The writers of these have been dead for many, many years. There can beno harm in our reading the letters. However, let's defer that pleasureuntil another time. Here, Tom, you might carry out those old clothes.They are so moth-eaten that they are likely to fall apart before you canget them outside." Tom reluctantly gathered up an armful and wentstamping down the garret stairs.
Old clothes, trinkets, some of them of value, recipes for cooking,written on the fly leaves of books and on scraps of paper, a variedassortment of everything, including early photographs of forgottenpersons, were discovered. Everything was assorted and placed in pilesfor future disposal. The girls' faces and hands were covered with dustlong before they had gone through the contents of the first few trunks.
Nothing of unusual interest had been discovered after something morethan an hour's rummaging. Tom had made so many trips to the back yardwith rubbish that he was tired. Finally he rebelled, declaring that hewouldn't tramp up and down those stairs again for the whole ofTreasureholme.
Ruth found a chest of books in very old bindings. She called Bab over.
"Here, dear. You are simply crazy over old books. Here are some thatwill keep you busy for the rest of the morning."
Bab ran over, and with a little chuckle of delight dropped down on herknees in front of the open chest. She lifted out the ancient bindingsalmost reverently, ran the pages through her fingers, pausing here andthere to read a line or a page, or a faded notation in pencil, thencarefully piled the books by the side of the chest. She was so whollyabsorbed in the contents of the chest that she failed to hear the livelychatter going on about her.
About half way down in the chest she found a thin, leather-coveredvolume, showing indications of long usage and much thumbing. On thefront page she read, "Journal of T. W. P."
"Olive, who was 'T. W. P.'?"
"'T. W. P.'? Why that's Tom's initials. Wait! Did you find that in oneof those old books?"
Bab nodded.
"Then it must refer to Thomas Warrington Presby. He is the gentleman whois supposed to have been scalped by the Indians, the man who buried thetreasure that we have had all the fuss and excitement about. What is thebook?"
"It is his journal. His diary, I think we would call it. May I read it?"
"Of course. I hope you may find something interesting in it."
The reading of the diary was not easy. The ink was faded and the writingwas so peculiar that Bab deciphered it with some difficulty. Bab curledup on a pile of old clothes under a window and buried her nose in theold diary. She found it fascinating to read the diary of the man whoactually buried the treasure that had made the name of Treasureholmewell known in all that part of the country.
The entries in the diary dealt with the routine affairs of the life ofthe owner. Then there were other and more absorbing passages. One thatmade the girl's pulses quicken was the following:
"Rumors of Indian troubles are afloat. Jake was wounded by an arrowto-day, shot from somewhere in the forest back of the house. But noIndians were seen. We shall soon have to seek safety in the fort, Ifear. What to do with my worldly goods when we go is the question thatis troubling me now."
"Oh!" breathed Barbara.
"Does it blow hot or cold?" questioned Olive.
"It seems to be getting warm," replied Bab. "He is talking about thetreasure."
"What?" The girls were on their feet in an instant. Barbara read theentry to them.
"Oh, fiddle!" sniffed Mollie. "That doesn't amount to anything. Don'tarouse my curiosity again unless you have something worth while."
Barbara considered that she had found something worth while, but shemade no comment on Mollie's remark. Instead, the girl returned to herperusal of the old diary, reading each page carefully, not knowing whena word or a sentence might give a clue to the mystery all were seekingto solve. The girls went on with their rummaging and their livelychatter. Tom had gone to sleep on a heap of bed spreads that were yellowwith age. The ghosts of the past did not trouble this healthy youngcountry boy. Mollie crouched down beside him, gently tickling his earwith a feather that she had found in a trunk. Mollie nearly explodedwith merriment to see Tommy fight an imaginary fly in his sleep. Theother girls were soon attracted to the game, though Barbara was entirelyoblivious of what was going on. The girls gathered noiselessly aboutMollie and Tom, shaking with silent laughter, taking care not to awakenthe sleeping boy.
Tom's face twitched nervously. After a little one eye opened ever solittle then closed warily. The girls did not observe the movement of theeyelid. Then all of a sudden things began to happen. Tom, withincredible quickness, leaped to his feet, and began laying about himwith a folded bed spread. Mollie was the first to go down under theattack. The others tried to get away from that sturdily wielded spread,but were not quick enough, however. Tom did considerable execution withhis unwieldly weapon before the girls finally threw themselves upon him.Then Tom went down and out. The girls dragged him to the stairway andstarted him sliding down the stairs, feet first. With faces flushed,eyes sparkling, brushing truant wisps of hair from their foreheads, thegirls returned to their exploration of the old chests. First Oliveclosed and locked the door that opened onto the staircase.
"There! I think we shall have peace now," she announced.
Suddenly Barbara uttered a sharp little cry.
"Girls! Girls! Come here! Oh, come here!"
The girls with one accord rushed pell-mell across the garret. Excitementreigned for a few seconds.
"I've found it! I've found it!" shouted Barbara.
"Found the treasure?" cried a chorus of voices.
"It's here, here!" she exclaimed, waving the little leather-boundjournal above her head.
"What have you found?" demanded Olive, showing less excitement than hercompanions.
"This entry. It means something. I don't know just what, but I know itmeans something."
"Read it, read it!" demanded the girls.
"The item is a month later than the one I found in the journal in whichthey were afraid the Indians were going to make trouble. Listen to this.If you don't think I have found something you are not half so smart as Ihad thought." Barbara hitched a little closer to the window and with herback to the light read from the journal the following entry:
"'To My Heirs: I am fleeing with my family, to the fort. The futurelooks dark. Should I not return, others of my family one day will comehere and take possession, provided the savages do not destroy the oldplace, which is not probable, as the spirit of a long dead Indian chiefis said to make his home here.'"
"I knew all the time there were ghosts here," interrupted Mollie.
"Wearing false faces," added Grace under her breath.
"There are further directions. 'Search and you shall find. I cannot bemore explicit save to say that what is here is well worth years ofendeavor,'" Barbara read on. "'I have a feeling that I shall see the oldplace no more. Remember, that to every people its own dead are sacredand be governed accordingly.'"
Barbara glanced slowly up at the solemn faces above her.
"Is that all?" asked Olive.
"Yes. That is the last entry in the journal, showing that the former Mr.Presby did not return, as you already have told us that he did not."
"What do you make of it, dear?" questioned Olive thoughtfully.
"It is a clue and a direction to the buried treasure. There can be nodoubt of that."
"Yes, but we don't understand it," spoke up Ruth. "I doubt if we evershall."
"It's my opinion that Mr. T. W. P. wasn't in his right mind when hewrote that," declared Mollie with emphasis. "
I think the Indians musthave gone to his head."
"This is no joking matter, Mollie," rebuked Barbara. "Can't you beserious for once in your life? We must study this."
"What do you say if I send for Mr. Stevens, girls?" cried Olive. "He hasstudied this mystery more thoroughly than anyone else and he will nodoubt understand the veiled allusion to the treasure. Suppose we copy itso we can read it more easily. Wait! I'll get a pencil."
Olive ran downstairs to her room, now not a little excited.
"I've sent Tom after Bob Stevens," she called, as she burst into theattic on her return. "Now read it to me and I will put it down."
"Perhaps I had better do that," answered Bab, reaching for the pencil."I know the writing better than you do and I want to make the copyexactly like the original. There," she added, after having carefullycopied the extract from the journal.
Olive regarded it perplexedly, Grace, Mollie and Ruth bending over hershoulder as she read and reread the extract from the old Presby diary.
"I must show this to father and mother," exclaimed Olive suddenly, asshe whisked out of the room with Ruth, Mollie and Grace racing afterher. Barbara, once more absorbed in the journal over which she wasbending with wrinkled forehead, did not seem to realize that she hadbeen left alone.
"Oh, if it should be true! If it should lead us to the treasure! If wecould save Treasureholme for the Presbys it would be glorious." Barbaragot up and began pacing back and forth. She saw nothing of the dingygarret room. Her imagination was traveling at express-train speed. Babstood leaning back against the heavy wainscoting, with her eyes fixed onthe ceiling, thinking.
"Oh, Barbara!" called Ruth's voice from the foot of the stairway.
"Yes?"
"Come down. Mercy! What was that?" A mighty crash shook the old house toits foundations. The shock seemed to come from above. Ruth sped up thestairs on winged feet. Those below stairs heard her utter a frightenedscream.
"Come! Oh, come quickly!" cried Ruth Stuart in a voice of terror.
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