us, we knew we was makin' easterly to fetch the coast. What say, Bill?"

"Cursed if I know. Spin a coin. The treasure has slipped us."

"Rot me if it has!" snarled the old man. "We'll push on as we are, in
the bigger stream. That stinkin' ditch on my left hand looks too weedy
and shallow to float a boat."

"It makes no odds. A gamester's choice," amiably agreed Bill.

They paddled with might and main, flinging caution to the winds. Jack
Cockrell was well versed in handling one of these dugout canoes and his
stout arms made Bill Saxby grunt and sweat to keep stroke with him. When
the craft grounded they strove like madmen to push it clear. Trimble
Rogers tore the water with a paddle, straining every sinew and
condemning Blackbeard to the bottomless pit in a queer jargon of the
Spanish, French, and English tongues. It required such a lurid
vocabulary to give vent to his feelings. He was even more distressed
when he sighted the clump of gum trees near by which he and Bill had
purloined the pirogue. Beyond this the creek was impassable.

"Throwed a blank! Wear ship and drive back to the fork o' the waters,"
shouted the old man. "Hull down an' under though he be, we'll nab yon
_picaro_, with his jolly treasure. _Rapido, camaradas! Vivo!_"

To make haste was easier said than done but the sluggish current was now
in their favor and there was no more than a half mile to traverse under
stress of furious exertion. The heavy canoe crashed through obstacles
which had delayed the upward journey and they knew where to avoid the
worst of the shoals. What fretted them was the fear that Blackbeard
might have buried the sea-chest and descended the creek while they were
engaged in this wild-goose chase. But this seemed unlikely and,
moreover, old Trimble Rogers was the man to nose out the marks of the
landing-place and the trail which must have been left.

Where the two streams joined, the pirogue turned and shot into the
smaller one. To their surprise it presently widened and was like a tiny
lagoon, with the water much clearer as if fed by springs. The view was
less broken and there were glimpses of dry knolls in the swamp and
verdure not so noxious and tanglesome. Along the edge of this pretty
pond skimmed the pirogue while Trimble Rogers keenly scanned every inch
of it for the imprint of a boat's keel. A hundred yards and the water
again narrowed to a little creek. Impetuously the canoe swung to pass
around a spit of land covere