"You ought to make a book of it," he said at last.
The captain shook his head. "I haven't got the gift of story-telling,"
he said, simply. "Besides, you can understand I don't want it noised
about. People might bother me."
He leaned back in his chair and bunched his beard in his hand; the other,
watching him closely, saw that his thoughts were busy with some scene in
his stirring past.
"Not a friend of yours, I hope?" said Mr. Chalk, at last.
"Who?" inquired the captain, starting from his reverie.
"The dead man atop of the treasure," replied the other.
"No," said the captain, briefly.
"Is it worth much?" asked Mr. Chalk.
"Roughly speaking, about half a million," responded the captain, calmly.
Mr. Chalk rose and walked up and down the room. His eyes were bright and
his face pinker than usual.
"Why don't you get it?" he demanded, at last, pausing in front of his
host.
"Why, it ain't mine," said the captain, staring. "D'ye think I'm a
thief?"
Mr. Chalk stared in his turn. "But who does it belong to, then?" he
inquired.
"I don't know," replied the captain.
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