th the stock of it, proceeded to read from a portentous
roll of parchment that he held in his hand. It was a semi-legal
document, clothed in the quaint phraseology of a bygone period. After a
long preamble, asserting their loyalty as lieges of Her most bountiful
Majesty and Sovereign Lady the Queen, the document declared that they
then and there took possession of the promontory, and all the treasure
trove therein contained, formerly buried by Her Majesty's most faithful
and devoted Admiral Sir Francis Drake, with the right to search,
discover, and appropriate the same; and for the purpose thereof they did
then and there form a guild or corporation to so discover, search
for, and disclose said treasures, and by virtue thereof they solemnly
subscribed their names. But at this moment the reading of the parchment
was arrested by an exclamation from the assembly, and the broker
was seen frantically struggling at the door in the strong arms of
Mark-the-Pinker.

"Let me go!" he cried, as he made a desperate attempt to reach the side
of Master Flash-in-the Pan. "Let me go! I tell you, gentlemen, that
document is not worth the parchment it is written on. The laws of
the State, the customs of the country, the mining ordinances, are all
against it. Don't, by all that's sacred, throw away such a capital
investment through ignorance and informality. Let me go! I assure you,
gentlemen, professionally, that you have a big thing,--a remarkably big
thing, and even if I ain't in it, I'm not going to see it fall through.
Don't, for God's sake, gentlemen, I implore you, put your names to such
a ridiculous paper. There isn't a notary--"

He ceased. The figures around him, which were beginning to grow fainter
and more indistinct, as he went on, swam before his eyes, flickered,
reappeared again, and finally went out. He rubbed his eyes and gazed
around him. The cabin was deserted. On the hearth the red embers of
his fire were fading away in the bright beams of the morning sun, that
looked aslant through the open window. He ran out to the cliff. The
sturdy sea-breeze fanned his feverish cheeks, and tossed the white
caps of waves that beat in pleasant music on the beach below. A stately
merchantman with snowy canvas was entering the Gate. The voices of
sailors came cheerfully from a bark at anchor below the point. The
muskets of the sentries gleamed brightly on Alcatraz, and the rolling
of drums swelled on the breeze. Farther on, the hills of