It was near the close of the month that my boy brought home a tightly corked bottle, which he and Arthur had found while cruising in the inlet. When he said that there was a piece of rolled paper inside, I felt enough curiosity to withdraw the stopper with the aid of a strong corkscrew, and to make an examination.
Sure enough there was a small roll of thick, vellum-like paper, on which, in a cramped hand, evidently written years before, was the following:
“Three feet under the Beacon Tree.”
For a minute or two I was puzzled, and then, as if by inspiration, the whole truth burst upon me.
The Beacon Tree was the name of an immense poplar that stood near the mouth of the inlet. The fish-hawks had builded their nests in the forked tops for a half century. I remember hearing my father say it was struck by lightning long before and although its upper branches were shattered, and it had been as dead as a fence-post ever since, yet its immense size, great height, and peculiar, silver-like appearance caused it to become a prominent landmark to the vessels when approaching the coast, and long before I was born it gained the name of the Beacon Tree, by which title it was known to unnumbered hundreds of sailors 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 was placed there by some freebooter a long time ago, and these people were awaiting 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 great deal of treasure along the Atlantic coast. Now, since Arthur was with you when you found this bottle, he has the same claim to the treasure that you have. We will not say anything to his father, and you must take particular care not to give a hint to a living soul. Go over and tell Arthur to come here this evening. I will furnish the shovels and lantern, and when we are sure that no one will see us, we will slip over to the Beacon Tree and dig.”
I recall that I was never so absolutely sure of anything in my life as I was that valuable treasure lay buried under the old poplar. My wife, to whom I showed the little roll of paper, expressed a doubt, and smilingly hinted that perhaps I was too much impressed by that brilliant sketch of Edgar A. Poe called “The Gold Bug.”
“Of course,” I answered, “disappointment may await us, and I know these bottles picked up at sea are frequently frauds; but the age of the writing and the peculiar circumstances convince me that this is genuine. I am sure something will be found under the Beacon Tree.”
Meantime Frank had hurried off to acquaint Arthur with the amazing discovery, and to warn him against dropping a hint to any one. My son soon returned with the word that his friend was “b’iling” with excitement, but alas! his parents were going to spend that evening with a neighbor, and since they would not be back until late, there was no possible way of his joining us.
The boys were not more disappointed than I, and the impulse was strong upon me to make the venture without the help of Arthur, meaning, of course 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 Arthur was informed that we three would attend to the business the following evening.
I could not avoid strolling out to the Beacon Tree the next day. I did so in the most off-hand manner and with the most unconcerned expression I could assume; but had any one scrutinized my countenance, I am sure he would easily have detected the deep agitation under which I was laboring.
I was considerably disturbed, upon examining the immediate surroundings of the tree, to discover signs which looked as if some one had been digging there quite recently.
“The secret has become known and the treasure has been carried off,” I gasped, with a rapidly throbbing heart.
Reflection, however, reassured me. No one had seen the writing in the bottle beside myself (though evidently it must have been known to others), and it was certain that if any person had succeeded in unearthing the hidden wealth, he would not have taken the trouble to hide all signs with such extreme care. Closer examination, too, convinced me there had been no digging about the tree at all. And yet I was mistaken.
We three reached the old poplar the next evening between ten and eleven o’clock. Arthur had escaped inquiry by slipping out of his bedroom window after bidding his parents good-night; and, inasmuch as the lantern which I carried was not lit until we arrived at the tree, we were confident of escaping attention. Still I watched sharply, and was greatly relieved to discover no persons abroad at that hour beside ourselves.
Since the treasure was located but three feet below the surface, in sandy soil, I brought only one shovel, while the boys watched me, one holding the lantern, and both casting furtive glances around to guard against eavesdroppers. It would be useless to deny my excitement. My heart at times throbbed painfully, and more than once I was on the point of ceasing until I could regain mastery of myself.
“Pop, you must be nearly deep enough,” said Frank, in a guarded undertone.
“I’m pretty near to the place,” I replied stopping a minute to draw my handkerchief 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 my lips and renewing my digging more determinedly than ever; “I carry a revolver with me, and I don’t mean to be robbed.”
The next moment my heart gave a great throb, for the shovel struck something hard.
“Hold the lantern down here, Frank, quick!” I commanded in a hoarse voice.
He obeyed, but to my disappointment the object proved to be a large stone.
“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 a practical 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 a half a dollar apiece if you don’t tell anybody about it.”
As we moved mournfully away I was sure I heard a chuckling laugh somewhere near in the darkness, but the author of it was prudent enough to keep beyond reach.
It was not until three months afterward that I learned all the facts connected with the writing found in a bottle. My neighbor, the father of Arthur Newman, on whom I had played several jokes, adopted this means of retaliating on me. He took my son and his own into his confidence, and I am grieved to say that the young rascals were just as eager as he. When I proposed to make the search on the last day of March, my friend resorted to the subterfuge I have mentioned, so as to insure that it should not take place until the following evening, which was unquestionably appropriate for my first and last essay in digging for buried treasure.
THAT HORNET’S NEST.
There was an indignation meeting of the boys at Bushville school, one sultry day in August. From stress of circumstances it was held at the noon recess, in the piece of woods back of the old stone building, and on the banks of the crystal stream in which the youngsters swam and revelled at morning, noon and night, during the long, delicious days of summer.
All the lads, not quite a score, belonging to the Bushville school, were present at the impromptu convention, but the proceedings were chiefly in charge of the lads, Tom Britt, Dick Culver and Fred Armstrong. There were but a few months’ difference in their ages, none of which was more than fourteen years, but all
were so much larger and older than the rest that they were looked up to as leaders in everything except study.
It cannot be denied that the three were indolent by nature, inclined to rebel at authority, and their enforced attendance at school was the affliction of their lives. They had given their teachers no end of trouble, and more than once had combined in open rebellion against their instructors. Tom’s father was a trustee, and like the parents of many ill-trained youths, including those of Dick and Fred, he could see nothing wrong in the conduct of his son. As a consequence, discipline at times was set at naught in the Bushville institutions, and one of the best teachers ever employed by the district threw up his situation in disgust, and went off without waiting to collect his month’s salary.
The successor of this gentleman was Mr. Lathrop, a young man barely turned twenty, with a beardless face, a mild blue eye, a gentle voice, and such a soft winning manner that the three leaders gave an involuntary sniff of contempt when they first saw him and agreed that he would not last more than a week at the most.
“We’ll let up on him, for a few days,” Tom explained to some of his friends, “so as to give him time to get acquainted. I b’lieve in letting every fellow have a show, but he’s got to walk mighty straight between now and the end of this week,” added the youth impressively; “I ain’t in favor of standing any nonsense.”
A nodding of heads by Dick and Fred showed that Tom had voiced their sentiments.
But, somehow or other, Mr. Lathrop was different from the teachers that had preceded him. He never spoke angrily or shouted, and his first act on entering the schoolroom was to break up the long tough hickory “gad” lying on his desk and to fling it out of the window. The next thing he did, after calling the school to order, was to tell the gaping, open-eyed children the most entertaining story to which they had ever listened. The anecdote had its moral too, for woven in and out and through its charming meshes was the woof of a life of heroic suffering, of trial and reward.
At its conclusion, the teacher said to the pupils that if they were studious and transgressed no rules, he would be glad to tell them another story the next day, if they would remain a few minutes after the hour of dismissal. The treat was such a rare one that all the girls and most of the boys resolved to earn the right to enjoy it.
“I’m going to hear the yarn, too,” muttered Tom Britt, “for he knows how to tell ’em, but as for behaving myself that depends.”
On the following afternoon, when five o’clock arrived (in those days most of the country schools opened at eight and closed at five, with an hour at noon, and not more than two weeks vacation in summer. I have attended school on more than one Saturday, Fourth of July and Christmas), the school was all expectation. When Mr. Lathrop saw the bright eyes turned eagerly toward him, a thrill of pleasure stirred his heart, for he felt that his was the hand to sow good seed, or this was the soil where it could be made to spring up and bear fruit a hundred fold.
“I am glad,” said he, in his winning voice, “to know that you have done well and earned the right to hear the best story that I can tell. You have been studious, obedient and careful to break no rules, and I am sure that as we become better acquainted, we shall like each other and get on well together.
“I wish I could say you had all done well, but it grieves me to tell you, what you know, that one boy has neglected his lessons, been tardy or so indifferent to my wishes that it would not be right that he should be allowed to sit with the rest of you and listen to the incident I am about to relate. I refer to Thomas Britt. Thomas, you will please take your books and hat and go home.”
The words came like a thunderclap. No one expected it, least of all the youth himself. Every eye was turned toward him and his face flushed scarlet. He quickly rallied from the daze into which he was thrown at first, and with his old swagger, looked at the teacher and replied with an insolence that was defiance itself:
“My father is trustee, and I’ve as much right here as you or any one else, and I’m going to stay till I’m ready to go home and you can’t—” but, before he had completed his defiant sentence, the slightly built teacher was at his side and had grasped the nape of his coat. It seemed to the lad, that an iron vise had caught his garment and a span of horses were pulling at him. He clutched desperately at everything within reach and spread his legs apart and curled up his toes in the effort to hook into something that would stay proceedings, but it was in vain. Out he came from the seat, and to the awed children who were looking on it seemed that his body was elongated to double its length during the process,—and he was run through the open door, and his hat tossed after him. Then the teacher walked quietly back to his seat behind the desk on the platform, and without the slightest sign of flurry or mental disturbance, he told one of the sweetest and most delightful incidents to which his pupils had ever listened. He closed with the promise to give them another at the end of the week, if they continued in the good course on which they were so fairly started.
“He catched me foul,” explained the indignant Tom Britt the following day in discussing his hurried exit from the schoolroom; “if he had only let me know he was coming, it would be him that dove out the door instead of me.”
The sullen youth did not receive much sympathy at first, for Mr. Lathrop was steadily winning the affections of the pupils; but Dick and Fred rebelled at such quiet submission to authority, and acted so sullenly that they, too, were shut out from the privilege of listening to the next story related by the teacher to the rest of the school. It had been agreed among the three boys that they should refuse to depart when ordered to do so by the instructor, and that when he made a move toward them, they would assail him simultaneously and rout him “horse, foot and dragoons.”
But the business was conducted with such a cyclone rush that the plan of campaign was entirely overturned. Before the rebels could combine, all three were out doors, so shaken up that they agreed that a new system of resistance would have to be adopted.
And thus it came about that at the noon recess, one day of the following week, the boys of Bushville school gathered in the cool shade of the woods to listen to the plan of the three malcontents for destroying the authority of the school. It was mainly curiosity on the part of the younger portion, who had little sympathy with the motives of the leaders and were quite sure they would meet with failure.
“I’ve made up my mind that I won’t stand it,” announced Tom, after the situation had been freely discussed; “no boy with any spirit will allow a teacher to run him out of school in the style he served me.”
“What then made you let him do it?” asked little freckled-face Will
Horton, from where he lay on the ground.
“Didn’t I tell you he catched me foul?” demanded Tom, glaring at the urchin; “if I’d knowed what was coming things would have been different.”
“Dick and Fred knowed he was coming for them,” added Will, “for he walked clear across the schoolroom.”
“You’ve got too much to say,” retorted Dick Culver, angrily; “when we want your advice we’ll ask for it.”
“Well, boys, you had better make up your minds to behave yourselves and then there won’t be any trouble,” was the sensible advice of Jimmy Thompson, who had perched himself on a log, and was swinging his bare feet back and forth; “Mr. Lathrop is the best teacher we ever had and he suits the rest of us first rate.”
“Of course he suits all boys that ha’n’t any spirit,” was the crushing response of the leader, “but I’ve a plan that’ll teach him that me and Dick and Fred ain’t that kind of chaps.”
“How are you going to help yourself?”
After several mysterious hints and nods of the head, Tom revealed his stupendous scheme for bringing the teacher to terms.
“You know the big hornet’s nest over in Bear Hollow?”
Inasmuch as there wasn’t a boy in the crowd who hadn’t shied stones at the object named (always without hitting it), no further information
was necessary.
“Well, I’m going to put that nest in the teacher’s desk, and when he comes in, takes his seat and raises the lid, won’t there be music?”
The scheme was so prodigious that for a full half minute all stared open mouthed at their leader without speaking.
“The teacher never locks his desk at noon, so it will be easy enough to slip it in before he gets back.”
“But when he opens the desk and the hornets sail out, what will become of us?” was the pertinent inquiry of Will Horton.
“Why the minute the things begin to swarm out I’ll yell, and we’ll all rush out doors.”
“Won’t the teacher do the same thing?”
“But he’ll be the last and he’ll catch it the worst. He’ll be right among the critters, and they’ll just go for him, so his head will swell up like a bushel basket and we’ll have a week’s vacation. By that time he’ll learn how to treat us fellers.”
“I am,” was the proud reply; “come on and I’ll show you.”
As he spoke, Tom sprang to his feet and started on a trot toward Bear
Hollow, with the others streaming after him.
It cannot be denied that the youth displayed considerable pluck and coolness when he came to the test. There hung the hornet’s nest from the lower limb of an oak, so near the ground that it could be easily reached by one of the larger boys. It was gray in color and of enormous size. It resembled in shape an overgrown football or watermelon, pendant by one end. In some portions faint ridges were visible, like the prints left by tiny wavelets on the sand. Near the base was a circular opening about as large as an old-fashioned penny. This was the door of the hornets’ residence, through which all the occupants came and went.
The boys halted at a safe distance, and even Tom paused a few minutes to make a reconnoissance before going nearer.
“You fellows stay here, and don’t any of you throw stones or yell!” he said, in a guarded undertone; “for if them hornets find out what is up, they’ll come swarming out by the million and sting us all to death.”
The Edward S. Ellis Megapack Page 17