“Kalkilatin’,” he remarked casually to his daughter, “you’d rather look arter your fixins, Rosey; I’ve left ’em till the last.  P’r’aps yer and Mr. Renshaw wouldn’t mind sittin’ down on that locker until I’ve strapped this yer box.”

“But what does it all mean, father?” said Rosey, taking the old man by the lappels of his pea-jacket, and slightly emphasizing her question.  “What in the name of goodness are you doing?”

“Breakin’ camp, Rosey dear, breakin’ camp, jist ez we uster,” replied Nott with cheerful philosophy.  “Kinder like ole times, ain’t it?  Lord, Rosey,” he continued, stopping and following up the reminiscence, with the end of the rope in his hand as if it were a clue, “don’t ye mind that day we started outer Livermore Pass, and seed the hull o’ the Kaliforny coast stretchin’ yonder—­eh?  But don’t ye be skeered, Rosey dear,” he added quickly, as if in recognition of the alarm expressed in her face.  “I ain’t turning ye outer house and home; I’ve jist hired that ’ere Madrono Cottage from the Peters ontil we kin look round.”

“But you’re not leaving the ship, father,” continued Rosey, impetuously.  “You haven’t sold it to that man Sleight?”

Mr. Nott rose and carefully closed the cabin-door.  Then drawing a large wallet from his pocket, he said, “It’s sing’lar ye should hev got the name right the first pop, ain’t it, Rosey? but it’s Sleight, sure enough, all the time.  This yer check,” he added, producing a paper from the depths of the wallet, “this yer check for 25,000 dollars is wot he paid for it only two hours ago.”

“But,” said Renshaw, springing to his feet furiously, “you’re duped, swindled—­betrayed!”

“Young man,” said Nott, throwing a certain dignity into his habitual gesture of placing his hands on Renshaw’s shoulders, “I bought this yer ship five years ago jist ez she stood for 8,000 dollars.  Kalkilatin’ wot she cost me in repairs and taxes, and wot she brought me in since then, accordin’ to my figgerin’, I don’t call a clear profit of 15,000 dollars much of a swindle.”

“Tell him all,” said Rosey, quickly, more alarmed at Renshaw’s despairing face than at the news itself.  “Tell him everything, Dick—­Mr. Renshaw; it may not be too late.”

In a voice half choked with passionate indignation Renshaw hurriedly repeated the story of the hidden treasure, and the plot to rescue it, prompted frequently by Rosey’s tenacious memory and assisted by her deft and tactful explanations.  But to their surprise the imperturbable countenance of Abner Nott never altered; a slight moisture of kindly paternal tolerance of their extravagance glistened in his little eyes, but nothing more.

“Ef there was a part o’ this ship, a plank or a bolt, ez I don’t know, ez I hevn’t touched with my own hand, and looked into with my own eyes, thar might be suthin’ in that story.  I don’t let on to be a sailor like you, but ez I know the ship ez a boy knows his first boss, as a woman knows her first babby, I reckon thar ain’t no treasure yer, onless it was brought into the Pontiac last night by them chaps.”