is requiem. Having selected at random a
place where he thought treasure ought to be, the worthy Councilor
wielded a shovel until he perspired rivers.

"Confound it, Blackbeard must have left a scrap of paper somewhere to
give us the proper instructions," he complained. "'Tis the custom of all
proper pirates. Look at the trouble he has put us to."

"I helped search the cabin afore the brig was set afire," replied one of
the seamen, "and all the writin' we found was in the bit of a book with
the leaves tore out, same as Cap'n Wellsby made a fair copy of."

"That explains it," cried Uncle Peter. "I have no doubt the vile
Blackbeard destroyed his private note of where he hid it, just to make
the matter more difficult for us honest men."

This was plausible, but it failed to solve the riddle. A day or two of
impatient digging and the portly Secretary of the Council was almost
wrecked in mind and body, what with insects and heat, ague and fatigue.
The ardor of his companions had likewise slackened. The boat's crew
swore that the condemned sea-chest must have sunk all the way to China.
Joe Hawkridge still argued that Blackbeard had whisked it away in a
cloud of smoke and brimstone. The unhappy Mr. Peter Forbes suggested:

"What say you, lads, to dropping down to the sloop for a respite from
this accursed swamp? There we can take comfort and discuss what is to be
done next."

Captain Jonathan Wellsby, who was a stubborn man, urged that they fish
once more for the sunken chest before taking a rest, and this was agreed
to. The sounding rods were plied with vigor and, at length, one of them
drove against some solid object deep in the mud. It was more unyielding
than a water-soaked log. The iron rod was lifted and rammed down with a
thud which was like metal striking against metal. The explorers forgot
the torments of the swamp. Uncle Peter Forbes was in no haste to flee
the mosquitoes and the fever.

The sailors began to rig the spars and tackle as a derrick set up on the
bank of the creek, with grapple hooks like huge tongs to swing out over
the water and grope in the muddy depths. Absorbed in this fascinating
task, they were startled beyond measure to hear the _thump, thump_ of
thole-pins sounding from somewhere below them in the swamp. It was no
Indian pirogue. Only a ship's boat heavily manned could make that
cadenced noise of oars. Bill Saxby bade the men be silent while he held
a hand at his ear and harkened with taut