CHAPTER IV
BRANDON COMES TO A DECISION
THE first thought which flashed across Brandon Tarr’s mind as he read the newspaper item quoted in the previous chapter was that the story of the wreck of the Silver Swan, as told by the old sailor, had been totally misleading.
“Why, he lied—point blank—to me!” he exclaimed, “and with this very clipping in his pocket, too.”
He half started along the path as though to pursue the sailor, and then thought better of it.
“He declared that he saw the Swan go down with his own eyes; and here she was afloat on the 13th of March—a month after the wreck. He must have wanted to keep the knowledge of that fact from me. But what for? Ah! those papers!”
With this Brandon dropped back on the rock again and read the newspaper clipping through once more. Then he went over the whole matter in his mind.
What possible object could Caleb Wetherbee have in coming to him and telling him the yarn he had, if there was no foundation for it? There must be some reason for the story, Brandon was sure.
Evidently there had been papers either given into the hands of the mate of the Silver Swan, or obtained by him by dishonest means. These papers must relate to some property of value which had belonged to Anson Tarr, Don’s uncle, and, his cupidity being aroused, the sailor was trying to convert the knowledge contained in them to his own benefit.
There was probably some “hitch” in the documents—something the rascally mate could not understand, but which he thought Brandon could explain. Therefore, his trip to Chopmist from New York to “pump” the captain’s son.
“Without doubt,” said the boy, communing with himself, “the papers were brought aboard the brig just as this rascally Wetherbee said, and they were from Uncle Anson. Let’s see, he said he died at Kimberley—why, that’s right at the diamond mines!” For like most boys with adventurous spirits and well developed imagination, Brandon had devoured much that had been written about the wonderful diamond diggings of South Africa.
“Perhaps—who knows?” his thoughts ran on, “Uncle Anson ‘struck it rich’ at the diamond mines before he died. There’s nothing impossible in that—excepting the long run of ill luck which had cursed this family.”
He shook his head thoughtfully.
“If Uncle Anson had owned a share in a paying diamond mine, this rascally sailor would have known at once that the papers relating to it could not benefit him, for the ownership would be on record there in Kimberley. It must, therefore, be that the property—whatever it may be—is in such shape that it can be removed from place to place—perhaps was brought aboard the brig by the friend of Uncle Anson who told father of his death.”
For the moment the idea did not assist in the explanation of the course of Caleb Wetherbee in retaining the papers. But Brandon had set himself to the task of reasoning out the mystery, and when one thread failed him he took up another.
“One would think,” he muttered, “that if there had been any money brought aboard the brig, father would have taken it on the raft with him when they left; but still, would he?
“According to the report the brig grounded on Reef Number 8, and perhaps was not hurt below the water line. The next gale from the west’ard blew her off again. She is now a derelict, and if the money was hidden on board it would be there now!”
At this sudden thought Brandon sprang up in excitement and paced up and down the path.
He had often heard of the wrecks of vessels abandoned in mid ocean floating thousands of miles without a hand to guide their helms, a menace and danger to all other craft. The Silver Swan might float for months—aye, for years; such a thing was possible.
“And if the money—if it is money—is hidden aboard the brig, the one who finds the derelict first will have it,” was the thought which came to him.
“But why should the mate come to me about it?” Brandon asked himself. “Why need he let me know anything about the papers, or the treasure, if he wished to recover it himself? Didn’t he know where on the brig the money was hidden? Or didn’t the papers tell that?”
He cudgled his brains for several minutes to think where his father would have been likely to hide anything of value on the brig. Was there any place which only he and his father had known about?
This idea suggested a train of reminiscences. He had been aboard the Silver Swan several times while she lay in Boston, and had been all over her.
Once, possibly four years before (it seemed a long time to him now), he had been alone with his father in the cabin, and Captain Tarr had shown him an ingeniously hidden sliding panel in the bulkhead, behind which was a little steel lined cavity, in which the captain kept his private papers.
Perhaps Caleb Wetherbee did not know about this cupboard, and it was this information that he wished to get from him. The idea seemed probable enough, for if he did not know where the treasure was hidden on the brig, what good would the papers relating to it be to him?
“There may be a fortune there, just within my grasp, and yet I not be able to get at it,” muttered Don, pacing the rough path nervously.
“Despite his former confidence in this Wetherbee, father must have doubted him at the last and not dared to take the treasure (if treasure it really is) when he left the brig.
“Instead, he gave him these papers, hoping the fellow would be honest enough to place them in my hands; but, still fearing to fully trust the mate, he wrote his directions to me so blindly, that Wetherbee is all at sea about what to do.
“Wetherbee knows that the brig is afloat—this clipping proves that—and he hoped to get the information he wanted from me and then go in search of the Silver Swan. Why can I not go in search of it myself?”
The thought almost staggered him for an instant, yet to his boyish mind the plan seemed feasible enough. He knew that derelicts are often carried by the ocean currents for thousands of miles before they sink, yet their movements are gradual, and by a close study of the hydrographic charts he believed it would be possible to locate the wrecked brig.
“I’ve got no money, I know,” he thought, “at least, not much; but I’ve health and strength and an ordinary amount of pluck, and it will be strange if I can’t accomplish my purpose if the old brig only holds together long enough.”
He looked at the soiled card the sailor had given him.
“‘New England Hotel, Water Street,’” he repeated. “Some sailors’ boarding house, likely. I believe—yes, I will—go to New York myself and see this scoundrelly Wetherbee again. He can’t do much without me, I fancy, and perhaps, after all, I can use him to my own benefit. I ought to be as smart as an ignorant old sailor like him.”
He stood still a moment, gazing steadily at the ground.
“I’ll do it, I vow I will!” he exclaimed at last, raising his head defiantly. “Uncle Arad’s got no hold upon me and I’ll go. I’ll start tomorrow morning,” with which determination he picked up his rifle and left the woods.