 CHAPTER III THE DICKING OF THE FIRST CIRCLE Tom Wetterborn had landed at St. Thomas with 113 pounds in his pocket. It was all he possessed, and his original calculations led him to believe that such a sum would amply suffice to clear his expenses if matters turned out fairly well, and his speculations proved successful within a reasonable time. He found, however, that the money began to dwindle, and accordingly changed his plans to some extent, and took a step of an extremely practical nature. With Mr. Hargan's permission, he hired some black labourer and set up a rough wooden hut at the theatre of his operations. One of the rocks in the triangle made an admirable back wall for this cabin, and here it was erected and furnished with a few scanty requirements. Tom arranged for a daily supply of vegetables, fish and meat, purchased an iron pot for cooking, and half a ton of coke for fires. Then, with no little satisfaction and delight, he dismissed the wandering negroes and entered upon a lonely life of steady toil. A week was occupied in the erection of this temporary home, and then the lad armed with mazers, billhooks, picks and spades, began the digging of a mighty circle. Taking the northern apex of the triangle as a cornerstone of his task, he drew from it a lined eighty-six yards long. He knew that the gold was buried somewhere at exactly this distance from the rock, and therefore a circle with the rock for centre and a radius of six and eighty yards must embrace in its circumference the hiding place of the treasure. But as the circumference of a circle is, roughly, just over six times as long as its radius, Tom's great ring would have to stretch more than five hundred yards round. Such an orbity carefully measured and marked out. Then he set about clearing the surface from bush and brushwood. Here and there great primal boulders blocked the way. At other points, venerable forest trees shot from the direct path of the circle, and these impediments the worker rightly determined to leave alone, suspecting that they must have existed in their present position long before Enoch Wetterborn buried his doubloons. Asking himself in which direction his old relative probably proceeded from the marked rock, Tom decided that he had gone west from it, and he therefore began his digging of the circle at that point. The measurements and preliminary clearance of ground had occupied a week. The nature of the soil would determine all further rate of progress. Tom designed to dig his trench of one yard and a half cross, and the cryptogram chronicled the necessary depth. He had, therefore, before him the operation of fashioning a circular pit about five hundred and forty-one yards in circumference, four feet deep, four and a half feet broad. The soil varied considerably within narrow limits. At some points it proved very hard and stony. At others it was formed of light gravel. Sometimes the bright sparks flashed from the pick as it fell on the solid rock, but a trifling distance beneath the surface, and in such places he pursued his task no further. The explorer rated his progress as represented by eight or ten yards a day, a speed only obtained by tremendously hard work. This pointed to the fact that the circle would take rather more than three months to complete, supposing health enabled Tom to preserve a steady rate of advance. Upon the other hand, any day, any hour, any moment, might put a happy period to the great task. Tom worked with a will from the onset, and his first fortnight of labor produced nearly one hundred and twenty yards of four-foot trench. He had also wrought dire havoc on the lad's hands, and took the fight out of him to no little extent. The muscular strain of such unwanted toil produced considerable physical pain at first, and the undue tax upon his strength affected the lad's nerves. He grew a good deal thinner and lost something of his former bright happy expression. An older and more care-worn look took its place. He lacked discretion in sundry particulars. He worked at times when he should have escaped from the sun's fierce eye, and often after dark, when he might have proceeded with a lantern, he stopped to rest. His old confidence, too, waned as he proceeded. Suggestions, chance possibilities, dim fears, troubled his hours of leisure, and kept him awake by night. These mental conditions of endless anxiety and unrest told upon Tom Wetterborn's temperament, and left their mark to such an extent that when Mr. Hargan rode over one morning before the heat of day, he noticed with regret a perceptible alteration in the bearing and manner of the boy. Here, going ahead too fast, young sir, he said, as Tom, who was at work, came out of his trench and shook hands. Yo, dash at this thing like a mad bull at a gate, slow and steady as the plan. Go on quietly, or you'll work yourself into a fever. I've need to work. This business is pretty well life and death to me. If I fail, I'm stranded west than one of the lame ducks in St. Thomas Harbour. That's not a fix you can look forward calmly to, is it? Well, I anticipate any such catastrophe. Time enough to sing out, Tom, when you're hurt. And you will be hurt sharply too at this rate. Think of your health, first lad. A fat pocket won't take the place of a rich constitution, believe me. Good health's worth more than any doubloons in the world. I'm all right, sir. Pardon me, but I must get back to work now. Not a bit of it. What are your manners? Drop your speed and show me your cabin. I've come to breakfast. It's no good looking black. You're not up your west Indian modes of hospitality yet. You must put personal matters aside when friends come to call here. Jump along and light a fire, give me some tea or coffee if it's handier. The good-natured old gentleman dismounted and tethered his horse. He'd ridden out at some personal inconvenience to see young Wetterborn, distract the lad's thoughts a while and cheer him up. Tom blushed at the rebuke and begged pardon, and was himself again in an instant. He set to work to light a fire and spread the best refreshments he had before his visitor. There were meal-cakes, biscuits, and fruit, with a big cup of coffee hot and strong. Mr. Hargan noticed with some concern that the explorer drank rum himself. Why, don't you have coffee too? He asked. It's a good deal better for you and certainly better to work on. It takes such a time in the making. I generally have a fire and coffee going after dark, but not by day. Rum's handier and suits me all right. You see, in this wild climate he gets dark sell quickly when the sun sets. Same thing in the morning this no twilight much and only a brief dawn. The sun roasts the skin off you in less than an hour after he's up. Well, don't put your trust in rum, lad. You've done splendidly, but it wasn't rum that helped you all wager. More haste, less speed, remember. That's a good old English maxim for you. The worthy man prosed on in a kindly way, and Tom returned civil answers, though his replies began to grow rather short as the visit extended. Presently, therefore, realizing that his departure would afford his hosts some satisfaction, the merchant lighted a cigar and prepared to mount. He thanked Tom for his hospitality with a delicate shadow of irony which the impatient youth quite missed, then rode thoughtfully away. Mr. Hargan reflected that wealth ill-gotten in the first place might perhaps exercise a baleful influence over generations to come. Of course, there was nothing to show that the bygone slaveowner who buried his gold had dishonestly acquired it. But such a circumstance seemed probable. One thing at any rate was plain. Tom Wetterborn's character appeared to be already changing. Meantime the treasure-hunter toiled steadily on, with no companions but birds and lizards. His days were very uneventful, and another fortnight slowly wore itself out, bringing no sign of the hidden money, but writing marks of increased anxiety on the searcher. He varied his labors at times, attacking the circle from different points. Nearly three hundred yards were now explored, though quite unsuccessfully. Then a stranger came upon the scene. Tom started one morning to do the two hours work he always set himself before breakfast, and found a white man sitting on the pile of earth he had turned overnight. This was a most unusual sight, for Mr. Hargan had kept his promise and not divulged the land's business to anybody. Negroes bought him his daily rations and other wandering Ethiopians would occasionally look at him in silence and then go their way. But white faces were getting quite rare objects. A chance horseman sometimes rode up from the road below and asked him his business, but his answer was always the same, that he was making private experiments upon Mr. Hargan's estate with that gentleman's permission. The dain himself, when interrogated, avoided making any definite reply. So upon the morning in question, Tom regarded the new arrival with some astonishment and set him down for a queer customer altogether. He was a tall, very thin person with a long nose, a little slit of a mouth, and bright, steel-blue eyes. His face was furrowed in tanned, his hair long, scanty and gray, a mere wisp of beard hung from his chin, and his cheeks and upper lip were bare. Lastly, of him it may be said that he was clad in dirty duck trousers, a decayed frock-coat, and a gray shirt. He sat calmly amid the remains of many cigarettes, and had just rolled a fresh one as Tom appeared. �Hello! What do you want?� asked the young weather-born sharply. �Prospect, and I judge� said the lean man inquiringly, waving his hand around at the piles of upturned soil. �That's my business. And mighty and profitable one most times. Got light anywheres?� �You may not be aware of the fact you are trespassing� said Tom, producing all light, nevertheless. �That's so� admitted the other, lighting a cigarette. �Well, if you know it, perhaps you'd better make tracks before there's a row. What do you think?� �There won't be no kind of row here, sonny. You see, Alexis Hargan's an older pal of mine than a urn, anyway. �He never told you of my job here, I know� answered Tom. �He's the right sort. Right as so we'll see in this island or anywheres. Nobody told me nothing. I guessed it. Tis'n't all business is it whatever I'm doing. �No, but it used to be� crawled the man. �See, I'm a neighbor, and lives not a hundred miles from here, all alone in my glory, same as you do. I'm a disappointed devil who's played his game and lost it. See, I've watched you and wished you luck. You put your back into it properly. Do you guess why I take so much stock on you? No, and I'd rather that you didn't if it's all the same to you. Tain't often I don't take no for an answer. And it's blame seldom I'd offer my friendship. If you're too big a bug to change ideas with a fellow man old enough to be your father, then I'll track my ideas sharp, of course. �Forgive me� said Tom instantly. I'm sorry I spoke like that, but you see, time is precious and I want to be working. Go right ahead then, don't mind me. I'll clear pretty soon. My name's Jagger, working name Matt, a man that near broke his heart and turned his hair gray and twisted his backbone crooked, looking for buried gold he never found. � Tom Wetterborn started and gazed at the speaker with an open mouth. What a great fear fell upon his heart that Matt Jagger's experience might have some reference to his own treasure hunt. �If it wasn't in these parts, I'd have played my game down California way. Some diggers struck a big thing, a very big thing, and cleared with it. There were three of them. They pushed along and by night they buried their pile on the ground for fear of accident. Two days out they were shot by certain parties and the news came along to us. Then me and a few went along and we drove plumb upon the murders digging like death for the buried stuff. The next thing they dug was the air with their heels, and then we reckoned having done the fair deal by our pals that the hidden pile was ours by right. There were four of us going on working, boy, and we sat about it and stuck to it for six months. You see, there was a side of gold at stake. Then one man chucked it up and three digged on. Another caved in pretty soon, but me and my own mate kept there for near two years. We extended our field of operation until he worked the place into a burrowing-ground, a cemetery of a thousand hopes, so they say. Then a day comes and we ups and says prayer over that spot and clears. We heard afterwards the man who gave up digging first had found the money after all, but he didn't get no solid satisfaction out of it when it came to be known. I made my little bit afterwards in another place and chants anchored me in St. Thomas. I lived two miles away to the east of this, being cussed into my own company and pretty bad society for everybody else. I just hang out there all alone with a dumb black man which showed a nigger's best. I don't reckon I'm on any fool's errand here, though, said Thomas suddenly after a lengthy pause. I didn't reckon I was, but when stuff's judged to be buried and you ain't got any direction, what'll fetch straighter than a 541-yard circle, there's a chance failure. How did you know about the measurements? Asked John Wetterborn suspiciously, because I took him when you were down in town last Sunday. You've got no call to be scared of me, lad. I don't want to help you bet your life, but I catch the drift of your game being an old diggacy and I'd just be pleased if you won what I lost. Slung, without another word, the lean man arose and departed. He was bent in the back, but swung along pretty fast and speedily disappeared in the direction of his home. Tom liked him, though he felt none too trustful and determined at least to be cautious. A week afterwards he saw Mr. Hargan, and that gentleman confirmed much of the stranger's statement. He's an American, I fancy, the merchant explained. It leaves where he told you, and just as he told you, the man's a queer sort of hermit, and some consider he is not quite right in his head. I know little of him accepting that he is very taciturn and shy. He deals at my store and pays ready money for everything, two points much in his favor, of course. When Matt Jagger turned up again, which he did four or five days after his first appearance, Tom greeted him with a greater approach to friendliness. He was sitting just as before, smoking cigarettes in the dawn, at a spot where the explorer left his tools the preceding night. Any luck, laddie? Not yet, Mr. Jagger. Janger me, mass my work in name. Well, your lesson in the orbit, anyway. Yes, but there's a month's more work yet. I'm slacking off a bit. It takes it out of you. Say here, said the other abruptly. I brought you long box cigars. They're good, and if you doubt, pick out one from anywhere and I'll smoke it. Thank you very much. Why should I fear them? The other shrugged his shoulders. Because you might fear me. I've known Dr. Smokes in my time. Then he sat down and pulled the tails of his old frock coat over his knees and watched Tom at work. He ain't free enough with the pick, boy, he remarks presently. You make your job harder than need be. Break up the stuff first. Tom laughed. Do you know I begin to find the pick rather heavy, getting lazy, I think. Let me see your hands. Tom showed them. One was tied up, and Jagger, and doing the bandage, revealed an ugly, raw blister of long standing. The other palm was little better. You're a fool, boy, he said sharply. Your hands should be as hot as iron by now, and would be if you'd understood your game. Then he marched off and did not return for an hour and a half. When he came back, Tom was working. Say here, to his noldiges remedy, now made it fresh. He produced some dark-colored ointment on a piece of plantain leaf. Don't touch it if you doubt me. There's nobody a man can trust nowadays. I shan't blame you if you won't use it. The man looked with his bright steel-colored eyes into Tom's eyes. He did not move a muscle, and Tom gazed back as fixedly, trying to read the truth, if possible. I'll trust you, he said at length, and you're a brick to take such trouble for a duffer like me. Open your hands, then. The lad soared and worry enough, dead as he was told. And the thick, cold palester fell pleasant upon his galled palms. Jagger spread the mixture, then bound up Tom's wounded fingers in such a way as would, by no means, prevent free use of them. If you're wise, you'll chuck work for today and give your pals a rest. They need it. Come over and see me this afternoon, and forget your work for an hour or so. I'll wager I'll make you forget it if you step over. I've seen funny doings one time and another, and I'll pitch you a yard or two that'll make you blink, see? To straight down to the beach, then, right along by the dry water coast to three old naked ribs of a wreck sticking out of the sand. From there you'll find my shanty above you, the only house aside. Wash that grease off and put on mold before you turn in. And away he went. Tom did not visit his new friend that day. He took a long rest and followed Mr. Jagger's advice in the matter of doing no more work. As a result, he felt considerably better on the following morning. His hands, too, had not been so comfortable for a month, and he went to work in a happier mind and with better confidence. Days followed days with uneventful regularity. Three months were passed, and early summer simmered in a hot haze over the wild northern hillsides of St. Thomas. The unexplored region fast grew smaller, and Tom Wetterborn's stock of hope dwindled in like major. Then came a morning when two hours would complete the digging of the great circle, and failure stared into the treasurer's seeker's face. As he went that day to his toil, at a more than usually early hour and full of desperate anxiety, Tom found Mr. Jagger sitting in his old position, as though he had never moved there from. It was barely light, and the birds had not yet begun to salute the morning. Matt's cigarette glimmered red in the dawn. Struck? No. He'll finish presently? Yes, in a couple of hours. Does that end your show? Yes, no, at least yes. It's all I can do. I'm beat, I'm afraid. See here, it's the Lord's day. Put off to finish till tomorrow. Give the Lord a chance. There isn't reason he'd help you today to be setting dead against his own commandment. I forget to count days now, said Tom. Chucky then, come along with me. We worked Sundays in California, but it never was business somehow. Never was. Step along. Tom obeyed, threw down his tools, and went home with the old digger. He spent an interesting day enough, and heard strange, wild stories, efficient to make a book. Jagger spoke of men and women, of laws and customs, of fortunes and failures, of savage doings and lonely places, of the great gold lust, and the life of the gold hunters. Human nature is exactly similar, whether it flashes out from blood and passion and bad language, or comes along with its boots blackened in a clean color. I've seen a man talk like a devil, and in the next minute do something a bishop might be proud of doing. There's two sorts of men, the hot-blooded and the cold. The first sort makes the worst noise and does the least harm, and has the most human nature in them. Give me them for pals. The cold-blooded kinds got crooked hearts. If they shoot a man, it's generally in the back. Mr. Jagger's tongue ran on till evening, and certainly took his listener's mind away from private thoughts now and then. Finally he quite conquered Tom, and the lad let his heart go out. Something told him that this was a genuine man, a fantastic, time-worn piece of humanity viewed from the outside, but the right sort. One of the warm-blooded men, he himself described, despite his withered, dried-up exterior. Come back now to my cabin, Matt, said young Witterborn suddenly. I've only got one little story in exchange for the hundred-juice bun for me, but it's just a yaw and you like. Come on, and I'll tell you what's brought me here and what I came for. Then they strolled back together, and presently Tom laid to bear his secret, as formerly he had done for Mr. Hargan's benefit. Jagger followed every step of the problem with the deepest interest. Then he borrowed all the papers and took them away with him. I'll bring them back tomorrow, he said. I just love a tricky thing like this. I'll go through the puzzle to-night, step by step, so as to check you. Turn in now, you won't sleep much, I guess, but lie quiet and don't take on if you'll fail tomorrow. You ain't beat yet. Next morning, with a tremble of anxiety and mighty thumping of heart against ribs, Tom finished his great circle. As the last spadeful of earth was thrown up, and the tremendous monument of futile labor completed, the boy dropped his spade, took a long, shivering breath. Quite hard to gulp down his failure and be stoical. But he could not quite manage it. A mist filled his eyes. His head swam around. He crawled out of the trench and flung himself down beside it, with his face upon his arm. No luck, asked somebody a few minutes later. Jagger had been hiding fifty yards off to watch Tom finish his task. Young Witterborn looked up, shook his head, and put it down on his arms again. Cheer up, laddie, and come into the house. There's a wag on the dog's tail yet. You ain't struck. But I have. See? Tom roused himself and looked with amazement at the speaker. The lad's eyes were bright, and the blood had slipped away from his sunburned cheeks, leaving him faint. Give me your mat, and don't try and wake up help again. It's dead, and it's died hard, and hurt me. Stuff. Hope dead in a digger? You made a minor mistake in this puzzle. That's what's the matter. Choke it down, boy, and come indoors, and have some rum, and begin again. While bless your life, you couldn't find the gold dud in this four-foot circus ring anyway, even if you're right in the pitch, which you ain't. He gave the bewildered Tom his arm, took him to the cabin, made him drink a stiff dose of spirits, and then produced all the papers relating to Enoch Wetterborn's cryptogram. Recording by Wayne Cook. Loop Garoo by Eden Philpots, section 28. Enigma of the doubloons, chapter 4. Matt Jagger's Circle First place, sonny, exclaimed Matt Jagger to Tom, who gazed wistfully at him. Even if y'all rings pitch true, you'd have to dig maybe a foot lower than you've done. A hundred years of fallen branch and rotting leaf and wear and tear generally would build up on top of the ground some inches of soil at the least, so I judged. See? You didn't allow nothing for that. Besides, the earth on top of the treasure might stand a bit higher than that around it. There was lots to spare, because the puzzle says how they scattered far what was left over. But that's nothing. You've made a blame sight worse air than that in the riddle itself. See here, how do you know this measurement's right? How do you know these two figures, eight and six, is put what they look to be? They're the only straightforward point in the puzzle, said Tom. Just so. And for that reason I wouldn't put a sense worth of faith in them. I figured this thing out last night when I left you, and I judged the old cuss that built it was no fool. He turned everything backwards, didn't he? Yes. Then why should he leave a telling point like two figures plain sailing? Not he. He muddled him like the rest, and I reckon I've cornered him on it too. Tom breathed very excited and breathed hard. Go ahead, was all he could say. You found the secret out yourself, continued Jagger quietly. Bet your life I had in the woods to solve it. You didn't care through your notion, that's all. And I went on where you stopped. It's like this. He turned the alphabet backwards, didn't he? Yes. And that's just what he did with figures. He treated them likewise. I'd bet a bank to a red cent I've tracked him. See this. Mr. Jagger produced a sheet of paper and laid it before young Wetterborn. There was nothing upon it save two rows of figures, placed orderly beneath each other, thus. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, zero. Zero, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one. Well, it's eighty-six now, asked the elder man with great glee rubbing his hands. I reckon it's turned into thirty-five mighty sharp. What? Tom could only stare and gasp. I never thought of it. I never dreamed of it. I'm a dense, helpless fool, and you're a genius. Why, two heads is better than one. You guess the trick, not me. But I am glad, gladder than I've been in late years, I tell you. Answered the other with a pleased laugh. Half the stuff is now yours, Matt. Well, pal's forever now. Half the stuff. Mind that, said Tom, shaking the old digger's hand. Something dimmed Mr. Jagger's little steel eyes for a moment. He sniffed and chuckled and twisted a cigarette. Lord, love you, boy. What's the good of mine to me, and man lonelier than a lighthouse? I've cheated my earth this journey anyway, so where quits now till she gets me for good? Stick to the dirt, laddie, and do the right thing by it. But we ain't banked yet. There's many slip-twix the gold in the pick, as we used to say. A new suckle. A new suckle, Matt, with a 35-yard radius. That's the game. Chowds play after this giant ring. But we'll make the new one broader and deeper. And I'm going to help in the digging of it, boy. I guess I'm getting fat and lazy. So's my dumb nigger. We'll tide him out, too. Overwrought, Tom could not trust himself to speak just then. He turned to be busy with preparation of food. And Matt rose up and strolled out of doors. Presently after a meal, both went to work on Matt Jagger's circle. It proved a very different affair to the first, and only extended over circumference of about 225 yards. The new ring was marked out that day. And Tom felt greatly surprised to see what two pairs of hands can achieve in the execution of a task, by contrast with one pair. So the new circle widened steadily out. It was broader and deeper than Tom's original venture, and its rate of progression varied as the first had done with the nature of the soil. A fortnight passed, leaving rather less than 50 yards unexplored, and bringing no hint or suggestion of success. Tom began to grow grave and tass a turn again, but Mr. Jagger never hesitated for a moment. He preserved a happy, sanguine mind, denied the possibility of any further miscalculation, and when but eight and twenty yards were all that remained to complete his circle, he still sounded a note of hope. Lock your luck, if it's hit away in the last yard we cut out, he declared. Don't grizzle and fell yourself to fiddle strings, anyway. If we'll be here, we can just begin again where you started and dig deeper. It's sheer ridiculousness that gold can be here to be on the finding, on a one-horse island no bigger than St. Thomas. Then almost upon the expiration of this portion of the treasure-hunter's labors, a sudden disaster not wholly unforeseen by the older man fell upon Tom. Jagger arrived, be times, upon the morning that was to see the second circle completed, and he found his friend already laboring wildly, digging at random, jabbering to himself and quite delirious. A low fever, born from the poisonous mists that sometimes wandered like evil ghosts upon the hillsides by night, had gripped Tom Wetterborn. He was in no condition to tackle any illness just then. The great topic of his brain, distorted and magnified by the ailment from which he suffered, became an ever-present source of excitement and added fuel to the flame. Indeed, Tom grew seriously ill. So at least Mr. Jagger believed, and he lost no time, therefore, in communicating with the town, in summoning medical aid, and in acquainting Mr. Hargan with the occurrence. The old merchant and a medical man arrived together to find Tom tossing about half a sleep in his cabin, and Jagger hearted work outside. Dr. Terence saw no great cause for alarm. He pronounced his patient altogether below par, and therefore ill-equipped to fight any ailment. The fever, however, was not malignant and unlikely to become worse if treated promptly. On learning the reason for Tom's rambling utterances, he deemed that it was important that he should be moved from a scene which would remind him of his search every time he opened his eyes. But the field of the lad's labor was not such that any vehicle could approach within a considerable distance of it. Mr. Hargan made a suggestion, and the two men were occupied with the subject when Matt came in. He had finished the second circle, and found nothing. But he was cheerful as ever, and showed considerable gratification at hearing sick Tom was not as ill as he appeared to be. He must be taken from this place, and the sooner the better, said Dr. Terence. Everything here keeps his brain in a rack and whirl. Let him come along with me, then, suggested Mr. Jagger. My place is handier than town, and it's easy going along the seaside most ways. I'm not a bad nurse, either. Some of them lordy niggers can help me with a litter and carry it afterwards. The medical man approved of the suggestion, and presently a light palanquin was improvised, with a cool green curtain of plantain leaves above it. Within this, between blankets, the sufferer, after a sharp egg you fed had passed off, was comfortably conveyed to Matt's lonely home. Jagger went on ahead to get matter ship-shaped for Tom before the sufferer should arrive. A negro was sent to St. Thomas for physics. This presently arrived, and, though Dr. Terence had already departed to his business, Mr. Hargan stayed on until the patient slept quietly, and a setting son warned him that he must be hastening homewards. Matt had already explained how affairs were standing in the search for the doubloons, and the old dane determined that, when the adventure's health mended, he would pay his passage home again. Tom slept far into the next day and woke better. He had no recollection of his recent journey, and was at a loss to know how he had come to occupy his present position, but he perfectly remembered the exciting point at which Matt's circle had been left, and as the evening came he poured a tumbling torrent of questions into the other's ears. Jagger avoided the direct answer, and, as a result, Tom guessed the truth. You tell me quick enough, Matt, if there was any luck. Don't think I'm not the right stuff, Matt. I can bet it. I can face it. He lay back quietly, and his friend sat beside him, and smoked and comforted him. Tom's eyes were like stars, his face thin and drawn, his hair saddily in want of the barber's scissors, shown bright his gold in the light of Matt's candle. The window was open, with a gauze over it. The night was very hot. A strange faint noise of frogs arose without, and the sigh of the distance below could be distinctly heard, breaking the nocturnal silence. Then the fever crowded down on Tom Moyner, born with a hand of a giant. He suddenly started up, laughing wildly and hugging some precious airborne treasure to his breast. Found, he cried surely, found at last. I knew it. I knew it. Thank God. Kneel down, Matt. Kneel down, I tell you. Oh, it's crumbling. It's sinking lower and lower. Help me, Matt. Help me, Matt. Stop praying. See, it's got legs. It's got wings. Gone. All gone. And devils laughing at me. Hark at them. Hark. Hark. He moaned and cried, while jaggers sat beside him, grim and silent. The old man had his watch out, and was waiting for the moment when the medicine must be again administered. "'Cause the clock, it crawls,' he said to himself. Presently his patient began to shiver. It's a trick. It's a lying trick,' he hissed out, speaking thick and fast with his teeth chattered. You're deceiving me. You're fooling me. You found it, Matt. And you're keeping it all to yourself. You wouldn't do that, Matt. You wouldn't rob a man that's trusted you like I have. Give me just my half. Only my half, Matt. I'm young, and I've worked very hard for a youngster. Very hard. Very hard. Lie down, you little fool, said Jagger Horsley. Lie down and be good. Don't you fret. We'll find the stuff. You and me. You wait till you are on your pins again. Never fear. Me steal your money. Why, we're pals, we are. See? Pals. That's what we are. We're pals. We are, yes. That's it. We're pals. Echoed Tom, looking dreamily at the man who was holding his hand. He wouldn't play it low down on a pal, would you, Matt? The reflection seemed to comfort him, and he grew quieter. Then Matt Jagger gave him his medicine, and presently the boy slept. The doctor came early next morning and stayed a considerable time. Tom had suffered a relapse, but was a shade better again, though very weak. The difficulty lay in his mental condition. The ruling passion of his life had got a hold. There was no shaking. It haunted his sleep and tormented his waking moments. Dr. Tarrant gave Jagger all necessary directions, urged him to watch his charge like a cat, and offered to send a nurse from town. This, however, the other would not permit at present. He declared himself quite equal to looking after Tom, and undertook to do so. The ailment, aggravated from start to finish by the sufferer's mental condition, ran its course, and a time came when young Wetterborn was on the high road to complete recovery. Then, in an evil hour, Matt supplied him with pencil and paper. He had been quiet for a week, had listened to his nurse's stories, and abstained from even alluding to his own interests. But no sooner were the pencil and paper his hands than the cause of his anxieties reappeared. He set to work at the cryptogram, and wearied his weak brains with helpless and aimless struggles upon the problem. Still, the boy grew stronger, very slowly, although he persisted in secret experiments on, and investigations of, the Wetterborn enigma. Then happened a thing for which Matt Jagger's black servant was to blame, though the old digger afterwards bitterly accused himself. Leaving the negro within sight of his patient, as he often did, Matt retired for a rest. He slept a couple of hours, and meanwhile, dumb Morris, the said Ethiope, seeing that Tom was quiet as a lamb, and busy with his pencil and papers, walked out to take the air and see a friend. He intended to be back before his master should rise, but chance retarded the man's return. A non-Matt awoke and strolled to the invalid's room. The door was open. The black watcher had disappeared, and the apartment itself proved to be quite empty. Tom had clean vanished, leaving no sign, save a stump of lead pencil, and a scattering of papers, some on the floor, some on the table by which he had been sitting, in a big, easy chair with a rug over his knees. Enigma of the doubloons Chapter 5 Eureka Matt strode off with his old frock coat fluttering. He felt no doubt as to where Tom had gone, and made accordingly at his best pace for the lad's cabin. A negro was able to give some information and answer to hurried questions. Mr. Jagger pushed forward rapidly and presently found himself by Tom's cabin, near the center of the two great rings that encompassed it. Tom was not in sight, but he or another had evidently been there quite recently. The door of the hut was open, some new digging operations were in progress just outside it, and a yard-measured trailed along the ground from the marked rock of the triangle, almost to the door of the cabin. Tom had apparently been galvanized into some frenzy by sudden discovery, fancied or real. Twenty-four yards were marked off on the tape, the exact distance at which the three rocks of the triangle were situate apart. It was at the base of the second rock that the hut stood where the boy had set out to work. Why he had desisted and where he was now, the searcher could not guess. As a matter of fact, poor Tom had seen his companion approaching and had hidden himself at hand until Matt should depart again. This the old digger presently did and wondered hither and thither calling to his friend. No answer came to the summons, however, so he went home again, trusting that the sick boy might have already come to his senses and made his way back. But only the dumb negro meant Matt, and wasting no words, Mr. Jagger started once more, this time for town. The night was far advanced when he reached Mr. Hargan's private dwelling and quickly aroused that gentleman. Two hours later, with the old merchant's aid, he had gathered half a dozen young men together and returned through the night to the northern borders of the island. They all carried small arms and Matt arranged a signal to be used in the event of success. Each man worked with a will, risking his own neck in the search, and Jagger, though his elderly limbs began to tire, twirled harder than any amongst them. He labored on out of sight and out of sound of the others, but it was long hours before any glimpse or hint of the missing boy rewarded him. Then, when the morning broke, the old digger made his arduous way through the forest down to his friend's cabin, and there came face to face with what he sought. Silent and unconscious by his work lay Tom Wetterborn. The dew glimmered in his bright hair, by his side was a pick and shovel. Near at hand a considerable aperture extended in the soil. Matt fired his pistol thrice to let the distant searchers know their task was ended. Then, raising the cold form of his chum, he carried him with all haste into the adjacent cabin and set about every means of restoring life that he knew. Tom had evidently returned to his labor when Matt last left it, and there he had toiled wildly until his overtaken strength gave way, or some son shocked and deprived him of consciousness. Soon a scorching August morning set the hot-hair dancing and flooded the wild mountain side with light. Then, in response to Mr. Jagger's summons, his fellow searchers, weary and to be draggled, arrived upon the scene. With them a crowd of chattering negroes, and as Dr. Tarrant happened to be amongst the volunteers who had spent the night on the hills, he was now able to direct Matt's despairing efforts. Gone I judge, said the old man hoarsely, looking up from where he sat, chafing Tom's cold hands. Can't be sure, though it looks bad, we'll fight death for him yet, replied the other. He set about further expedience, but Jagger felt only too certain that hope was idle. He left the doctor and went forth to where his party were making a hasty breakfast. Gown, he said shortly, in answer to their hurried queries, gowned to a gulls no account. They were for making a litter and carrying poor Tom back to the town, but his friend had another notion. Guess not, pierced to me that here, here where he fought his little fight, and got beat and broke his heart, here, in this hole of his own diggings, the place most fitting to let him rest. Let Hargan know what's befallen him when he get back, and maybe it would be well to sit and minister along also. Then he directed some of the loafing negroes to enlarge the pit at their feet, and the white men, knowing Matt's eccentric nature, and not caring to argue about his suggestion, soon departed to obey his wishes when they should reach the town. Mr. Hargan started immediately for the Theater of the Tragedy upon hearing what was reported to have happened, but long before he could arrive, although he lost no time in so doing, two marvelous, strange things had come to pass. Matt, leaving the graveside for a moment, went in to see Dr. Tarrant, and, that worthy, being in a state of profuse perspiration, working like to Britain he was, shouted to him that there were fast ripening signs of a life in the still figure upon the ground. At the same moment, a negro rushed after Mr. Jagger, and the Ethiopian was even more excited than the medical man. Bisa, come find have been foundsa, Matt, nearly torn in two, but aware that the lad was safe in Dr. Tarrant's hands, hastened out again, to find all the black men had stopped working and were standing jabbering upon the bank. Looking down he saw, sticking from the earth, two corners of some coffin-like receptacle that certainly justified the negro suspicions. Taking a pick himself and getting into the hole, Mr. Jagger speedily laid bare a deep oblong box, the timbers of which had rotted to touch wood, and were only held in their places by rusty iron clamps at its corners. The old digger stuck his pick through the lid and wrenched off one side. It crumbled in dust, and a great glittering, tinkling stream of broad gold pieces came tumbling out after it. The money had aberrantly been cased in canvas bags, but the fabric of them had long since rotted. The blacks began dancing and yelling like demons. They swarmed around the treasure, and some jumped into the pit to snatch for themselves, but Jagger had them out again in a twinkling, and proved quite equal to the great occasion. Then, as Dr. Tarrant rushed from the cabin with a wild shout of, Alive, he's alive! Matt drew his revolver, and took a seat on the bank above Tom Wetterborn's doubloons. Now, nigs, he said grimly, with a tear on his wrinkled cheek, which he did not know was there. He heard what the boss says. The boy's alive, thank the lord. So keep your legs still and your thick heads shut, or lack enough you'll have something to sing and dance for. This stuff ain't yours, and it ain't mine, see? It's the boy's. Every fat shiner of it. So stop your row and behave like man, not monkeys. First black paw that comes over the pit edge will have a hole in it and might a shop anyway. Now you know. Then, under his direction, a blanket was procured from Tom Wetterborn's cabin and spread out upon the ground. Matt then set two negroes to work and watched them like a hawk the while. A great shining heap glimmered in the sunshine and grew upon the blanket. Then, when Mr. Hargan and others personally arrived from town, Matt was able to leave his position and enter the pit again himself. Soon being convinced that nothing remained, he scrambled out again with the last of three small tin cases that had apparently been buried beneath the larger box. The blanket was strengthened against the heavy burden it had to sustain. Ropes were bound round it, and in on a rough stout vehicle, perhaps just such as one as old Enoch Wetterborn had himself used in the far past, was dragged to the spot and loaded with the doubloons. But long before the precious mass of gold started under armed escort for town, Tom Wetterborn, with Mr. Hargan and Matt Jagger riding beside him, had been conveyed on a comfortable litter slung between mules to the Danish merchant's private house. Matt stayed a while, until Dr. Tarrant was able to speak with something approaching a note of hope as to the future. Then, pretty well exhausted in mind and body, the old man trudged warily and happily homewards. There he was too sleepy and worn out to trouble himself with the papers which Tom had scattered round in his recent departure. But after twelve hours dreamless sleep, Mr. Jagger rose again and refreshed, collected his friends' notes and memoranda, and examined them with interest. It was not easy to trace the explorer's progress, for his discoveries seemed to be reached by no very regular stages. He had wandered at random amid useless ideas, until inspiration suddenly came, and the enigma of the doubloons gave up its last secret. One incomplete note on a fragment of paper told the tale. Thus it ran. Try Matt's plan without cipher zero at end of figures. Take numerals only. Then one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, over nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one. Here eighty-six equals twenty-four. A ring with twenty-four yards ready Tom had broken off abruptly here in a tempest of excitement. No hand was by to stop his mad flight, and possessed for a brief space of time with unnatural strength he had hurried away to verify his discovery. Fate unkind so long. Ordained that by strange chance his first wild attempt should be directed to the identical spot beneath which the treasure reposed, for the doubloons lay exactly twenty-four yards from the marked rock at the base of one of the other boulders which went to complete the triangle. And Tom had actually got within six inches of the money when he fell senseless and beaten. Where he had lain by night, tossing and troubled on his couch in the cabin, the doubloons were but eight or ten feet from his own curly head. When young Wetterborn recovered consciousness, the first fellow creature he saw was Matt Jagger. And the first thing he particularly noticed was a little pile of fat golden doubloons beside him on the table. Dr. Taren said that a sight of the money would do more good than all his medicine, and it certainly contributed no little to the invalid's recovery. His mind found rest and relief in contemplating the fact that his fight was over and won, and his body soon felt the results of his mental condition. Time flew and the boy restored to health began to look over the blue sea towards home. None amongst his friends would take a share of the doubloons, and Jagger simply insulted Tom when he suggested such a thing. But the youngster was even with him all, for he left an unopened tin box to Mr. Hargan, Mr. Jagger, and Dr. Taren. And each of the said receptacles was found to contain jewels and antique sentings, which represented property of considerable value. So Tom sailed away, and the land of his adventure knew him no longer, but one or two people heard pretty regularly of his doings. Folks said that Matt Jagger grew more and more eccentric and unsociable after his chum left St. Thomas. There are times, however, when a glimpse of the digger in his tattered frockcoat can still be had. Where the two great circles stretch out round a rocky triangle, circles now only faintly visible under fresh wealth of tropic vegetation, there, at dawn, in the center of them, by the tumble-down remains of Tom Winterborn's cabin, may an uncouth, bent old man be frequently observed. And as the day breaks, as morning flushes the wild land, and the gray mists of night rise and vanish on golden wings, Matt rolls another cigarette and slouches off. The end. End of Section 29. End of Loop Garoo by Eden Philpots.