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I had a little two-wheeled truck that I used about the store to run bags of shell about in, and copra, and on this we put the treasure, eight bags of it, each one as heavy as could be lifted comfortably. Old Dibs insisted on cutting one open and serving us out a double handful each, not forgetting a share for Tom’s wife as well as mine, and saying, “Take it, and God bless you, my dear, kind friends!” We dropped it into my tool chest, and threw the key on the floor of the bedroom, meaning to divide up equal later on.

We rigged a sort of rope harness to the truck, giving Tom the handles to steer by, while Old Dibs, Sarah, and me did tandem in front. The boatswain’s chair and the coil of Manila rope were lashed down on the load, as well as the basket of provisions, Sarah carrying the demijohn in her hand, Old Dibs the gin and “Under Two Flags,” while I led the way with the lantern.

My, but we must have made a queer sight as we plowed through the darkness, Tom bearing down on the handles and fighting to keep the truck on an even keel, Old Dibs grampussing along as wheeler, and Sarah and me tugging like battery mules! Of course everybody knows that gold is heavy, but when you run into the hundred thousands it becomes pig-iron heavy, cannon heavy, house-and-lot-and-barn heavy! It nearly pulled the hearts out of us to keep that truck moving, specially in the sand before we struck a harder going.

I thought time and again it was going to prove the death of Old Dibs. He was always laying down in his harness like a done-up Eskimo dog in the pictures, and having to be fanned alive again. But when we’d propose to cut him out, he’d say No, and stagger to his feet, showing a splendid spirit and cart-horsing ahead till his poor old breath came in roars.

It was a thankful moment when we got to the tree, where me and Tom, after a spell of rest, jumped in together with a will. It was no slouch of a job to get that tackle in position, the block being iron shod and heavy, the rope inch Manila, and the night as black as the pit of Tophet. Tom went aloft first, with a coil of light line, having to feel his way for the place we had marked with the handkerchief, and threatening more than once to come down quicker than he had gone up. The handkerchief had rotted off, or blown away long since, and it bothered Tom not a little to find where it had been. But at last he did so, dropping his line for the lantern, according to the plan we had arranged beforehand, so as to avoid all shouting and noise. When he had placed the lantern to his satisfaction, the line came straggling down again for the block and the gear to make it fast with, and when this was done the inch Manila went up, and everything was ready.

It showed how well Tom and I had thought it out, that there wasn’t a single hitch, except for the lantern blowing out and Tom having no matches, I going up to see what was delaying him, and having none neither. Then we changed places, Tom being a heavier man to pull, and I remaining aloft to handle the freight as it came along. They made the boatswain’s chair fast below, and sent her up with the first load–two bags of coin–getting it on a level with the platform by the lantern marking the place. I stood on the platform and had no trouble in yanking the stuff in; and this went right along like a mail steamer, till it was all up, and it came old Dibs’s turn.

But he just took one look at the boatswain’s chair, and said “Nit,” laying down on the ground when they tried to persuade him into it, and rolling over and over in desperation. We argufied over him for an hour, and it seemed all to no purpose, he refusing to budge an inch, saying he weighed two hundred and twenty pounds, and was better off in the attic.