After these exercises came a blank page, and then, halfway down the next, abruptly, without title, began the manuscript which I will call Captain Coffin’s statement.

“Pass it to Lydia,” said Mr. Rogers.  “She reads like a parson.”

“Better than most, I hope,” said Miss Belcher, taking the book; and this—­I omit the faults of spelling—­is what she read aloud—­

Mem.  Began this August 15th, 1812.  Mem.  Am going to tell about the treasure, and what happened.  But it will be no use without the map.  If any one tries to bring up trouble, this is the truth and nothing else.  Amen.  So be it.  Signed, D. Coffin.

My father followed the sea, and bred me to it.  He came from Devonshire, near Exmouth.  N.B.—­He used to say the Coffins were a great family in Devonshire, and as old as any; but it never did him no good.  He was an only son, and so was I, but I had an older sister, now dead.  She grew up and married a poultryman in Quay Street, Bristol.  I remember the wedding.  Died in childbed a year later, me being at that time on my first voyage.

We lived at Bristol, at the foot of Christmas Stairs, left-hand side going up, two doors from the bottom.  My mother from Stonehouse, Gloster, where they make cloth, specially red cloth for soldiers’ coats.  Her maiden name Daniels.  She was a religious woman, and taught me the Bible.  My father was lost at sea, being knocked overboard by the boom in half a gale, two miles S.W. of Lundy.  I was sixteen at the time, and apprentice as cabin-boy on board the same ship, the Caroline, bound from Hayle to Cardiff with copper ore.  I went home and broke the news to my mother, and she told me then what I didn’t know before, that she was very poorly provided for.  I will say this, that I made her a good son; and likewise, that I never had no luck till I struck the Treasure.

I was born in the year 1750.  My father’s death happened 1766.  From that time till my twenty-seventh year, I supported my mother.  She died of a seizure in 1777, and is buried by St. Mary’s Redclyf—­ we having moved across the water to that parish.  Married next year, Elizabeth Porter, in service with Soames Rennalls, Esquire, Alderman of the City.  She had been brought up an orphan by the Colston Charity; a good pious woman, and bore me one child, a daughter, christened Ann—­a dear little one.  She lived and throve up to the year 1787, me all the time coming and going on voyages, mostly coasting, too numerous to mention.  Then the small-pox carried her off with my affectionate wife, the both in one week.  At which I cursed all things, and for several years ran riot, not caring what I said or did.