This is a true story of a search for buried treasure. The only part that is nottrue is the name of the man with whom I searched for the treasure. Unless Ikeep his name out of 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 make by writingthe 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.
There is, however, no agreement preventing me from describing him as I think heis, or reporting, as accurately as I can, what he said and did as he said anddid it.
For purposes of identification I shall call him Edgar Powell. The last name hasno significance; but the first name is not chosen at random. The leader of ourexpedition, the head and brains of it, was and is the sort of man one wouldaddress as Edgar. No one would think of calling him “Ed,” or “Eddie,” any morethan he would consider slapping him on the back.
We were together at college; but, as six hundred other boys were there at thesame time, that gives no clew to his identity. Since those days, until he cameto see me about the treasure, we had not met. All I knew of him was that he hadsucceeded his father in manufacturing unshrinkable flannels. Of course, thereader understands that is not the article of commerce he manufactures; but itis near enough, and it suggests the line of business to which he gives hislife’s blood. It is not similar to my own line of work, and in consequence,when he wrote me, on the unshrinkable flannels official writing-paper, that hewished to see me in reference to a matter of business of “mutual benefit,” Iwas considerably puzzled.
A few days later, at nine in the morning, an hour of his own choosing, he cameto my rooms in New York City.
Except that he had grown a beard, he was as I remembered him, thin and tall,but with no chest, and stooping shoulders. He wore eye-glasses, and as of oldthrough these he regarded you disapprovingly and warily as though he suspectedyou might try to borrow money, or even joke with him. As with Edgar I had neverfelt any temptation to do either, this was irritating.
But from force of former habit we greeted each other by our first names, and hesuspiciously accepted a cigar. Then, after fixing me both with his eyes andwith his eye-glasses and swearing me to secrecy, he began abruptly.
“Our mills,” he said, “are in New Bedford; and I own several small cottagesthere and in Fairhaven. I rent them out at a moderate rate. The other day oneof my tenants, a Portuguese sailor, was taken suddenly ill and sent for me. Hehad made many voyages in and out of Bedford to the South Seas, whaling, and hetold me on his last voyage he had touched at his former home at Teneriffe.There his grandfather had given him a document that had been left him byhis father. His grandfather said it contained an important secret, butone that was of value only in America, and that when he returned to thatcontinent he must be very careful to whom he showed it. He told me it waswritten in a kind of English he could not understand, and that he had beenafraid to let any one see it. He wanted me to accept the document in payment ofthe rent he owed me, with the understanding that I was not to look at it, andthat if he got well I was to give it back. If he pulled through, he was to payme in some other way; but if he died I was to keep the document. About a monthago he died, and I examined the paper. It purports to tell where there isburied a pirate’s treasure. And,” added Edgar, gazing at me severely and asthough he challenged me to cont