ocker or cubby-hole, set in the
angle under the roof of the cabin, and, as subsequent investigation
showed, so placed as to attract no notice from the casual eye. I
ascertained this by lying down and wriggling my head and shoulders
into the cabin. In other words, I had happened on a little private
depository, in which the owner of the sloop might stow away certain
small matters that concerned him intimately. Yet the contents of
the locker at first seemed trifling. They were an old-fashioned
chased silver shoe-buckle, and a brown-covered manuscript book.

The book had suffered much from dampness, whether of rains or the
wash of the sea. The imitation leather cover was flaking off, and
the leaves were stuck together. I seated myself on the cabin roof,
extracted a hairpin, and began carefully separating the
close-written pages. The first three or four were quite illegible,
the ink having run. Then the writing became clearer. I made out a
word here and there:

. . . . directions vague . . . . my grandfather . . . .
man a ruffian but . . . . no motive . . . . police of
Havana . . . . frightful den . . . . grandfather made
sure . . . . registry . . . . _Bonny Lass_ . . . .

And at that I gave a small excited shriek which brought Crusoe to
me in a hurry. What had he to do, the writer of this journal, what
had he to do with the _Bonny Lass_?

Breathlessly I read on:

. . . . thought captain still living but not
sure . . . . lost . . . . Benito Bon . . . .

I closed the book. Now, while the coast was clear, I must get back
to camp. It would take hours, perhaps days, to decipher the
journal which had suddenly become of such supreme importance. I
must smuggle it unobserved into my own quarters, where I could read
at my leisure. As I set out I dropped the silver shoe-buckle into
my pocket, smiling to think that it was I who had discovered the
first bit of precious metal on the island. Yet the book in my
hand, I felt instinctively, was of more value than many
shoe-buckles.

Safely in my hammock, with a pillow under which I could slip the
book in case of interruption, I resumed the reading. From this
point on, although the writing was somewhat faded, it was all, with
a little effort, legible.

THE DIARY

If Sampson did live to tell his secret, then any day there may be a
sail in the offing. And still I can not find it! Oh, if my
grandfather had been more worldly wise! If he hadn't been t