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My Buried Treasure
by
Had he told me he contemplated crossing the Rocky Mountains in a Baby Wright, or leading a cotillon, I could not have been more astonished. I am afraid I laughed aloud.
“You!” I exclaimed. “Search for buried treasure?”
My tone visibly annoyed him. Even the eye-glasses radiated disapproval.
“I see nothing amusing in the idea,” Edgar protested coldly. “It is a plain business proposition. I find the outlay will be small, and if I am successful the returns should be large; at a rough estimate about one million dollars.”
Even to-day, no true American, at the thought of one million dollars, can remain covered. His letter to me had said, “for our mutual benefit.” I became respectful and polite, I might even say abject. After all, the ties that bind us in those dear old college 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 I shall be only too happy.” With regret I observed that my generous offer did not seem to deeply move him.
“I came to you in this matter,” he continued stiffly, “because you seemed to be the sort of person who would be interested in a search for buried treasure.”
“I am,” I exclaimed. “Always have been.”
“Have you,” he demanded searchingly, “any practical experience?”
I tried to appear at ease; but I knew then just how the man who applies to look after your furnace feels, when you ask him 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 to go after it.” I endeavored to dazzle him with expert knowledge.
“Of course,” I went on airily, “I am familiar with all the expeditions that have tried for the one on Cocos Island, and I know all about the Peruvian treasure on Trinidad, and the lost treasures of Jalisco near Guadalajara, and the sunken galleon on the Grand Cayman, and when I was on the Isle of Pines I had several very tempting offers to search there. And the late Captain Boynton invited me—-“
“But,” interrupted Edgar in a tone that would tolerate no trifling, “you yourself have never financed or organized an expedition with the object in view of—-“
“Oh, that part’s easy!” I assured him. “The fitting-out part you can safely leave to me.” I assumed a confidence that I hoped he might believe was real. “There’s always a tramp steamer in the Erie Basin,” I said, “that one can charter for any kind of adventure, and I have the addresses of enough soldiers of fortune, filibusters, and professional revolutionists to man a battle-ship, all fine fellows in a tight corner. And I’ll promise 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 Edgar sternly. “I don’t INTEND to get into any tight corners. I don’t WANT to go to hell!”
I saw that in my enthusiasm I had perhaps alarmed him. I continued more temperately.
“Any expedition after treasure,” I pointed out, “is never without risk. You must have discipline, and you must have picked men. Suppose there’s a mutiny? Suppose they try to rob us of the treasure on our way home? We must have men we can rely on, and men who know how to pump a Winchester. I can get you both. And Bannerman will furnish me with anything from a pair of leggins to a quick firing gun, and on Clark Street they’ll quote me a special rate 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 the fun.”
“I want you to understand,” exclaimed Edgar indignantly, “there isn’t going to be any danger. There isn’t going to be any fun. This is a plain business proposition. I asked you those questions just to test you. And you approached the matter exactly as I feared you would. I was prepared for it. In fact,” he explained shamefacedly, “I’ve read several of your little stories, and I find they run to adventure and blood and thunder; they are not of the analytical school of fiction. Judging from them,” he added accusingly, “you have a tendency to the romantic.” He spoke reluctantly as though saying I had a tendency to epileptic fits or the morphine habit.