“And I don’t see why they should have killed the poor black man,” said Tom, as he finished his narrative.

“Why, that is very easy enough to understand,” said the good reverend man. “’Twas a treasure-box they buried!”

In his agitation Mr. Jones had risen from his seat and was now stumping up and down, puffing at his empty tobacco-pipe as though it were still alight.

“A treasure-box!” cried out Tom.

“Aye, a treasure-box!  And that was why they killed the poor black man.  He was the only one, d’ye see, besides they two who knew the place where ’twas hid, and now that they’ve killed him out of the way, there’s nobody but themselves knows.  The villains—­Tut, tut, look at that now!” In his excitement the dominie had snapped the stem of his tobacco-pipe in two.

“Why, then,” said Tom, “if that is so, ’tis indeed a wicked, bloody treasure, and fit to bring a curse upon anybody who finds it!”

“’Tis more like to bring a curse upon the soul who buried it,” said Parson Jones, “and it may be a blessing to him who finds it.  But tell me, Tom, do you think you could find the place again where ’twas hid?”

“I can’t tell that,” said Tom, “’twas all in among the sand-humps, d’ye see, and it was at night into the bargain.  Maybe we could find the marks of their feet in the sand,” he added.

“’Tis not likely,” said the reverend gentleman, “for the storm last night would have washed all that away.”

“I could find the place,” said Tom, “where the boat was drawn up on the beach.”

“Why, then, that’s something to start from, Tom,” said his friend.  “If we can find that, then maybe we can find whither they went from there.”

“If I was certain it was a treasure-box,” cried out Tom Chist, “I would rake over every foot of sand betwixt here and Henlopen to find it.”

“’Twould be like hunting for a pin in a haystack,” said the Rev. Hilary Jones.

As Tom walked away home, it seemed as though a ton’s weight of gloom had been rolled away from his soul.  The next day he and Parson Jones were to go treasure-hunting together; it seemed to Tom as though he could hardly wait for the time to come.

V

The next afternoon Parson Jones and Tom Chist started off together upon the expedition that made Tom’s fortune forever.  Tom carried a spade over his shoulder and the reverend gentleman walked along beside him with his cane.

As they jogged along up the beach they talked together about the only thing they could talk about—­the treasure-box.  “And how big did you say ’twas?” quoth the good gentleman.

“About so long,” said Tom Chist, measuring off upon the spade, “and about so wide, and this deep.”

“And what if it should be full of money, Tom?” said the reverend gentleman, swinging his cane around and around in wide circles in the excitement of the thought, as he strode along briskly.  “Suppose it should be full of money, what then?”