Down in my cabin, I looked over some mail that had been waiting for me at the post-office.  Amongst it was a crisp, characteristic word from Charlie Webster—­for whom the gun will ever be mightier than the pen: 

“Tobias escaped—­just heard he is on your island—­watch out.  Will follow in a day or two.”

I came out on deck about sunset.  We were running along with all our sails drawing like a dream.  I looked back at the captain, proud and quiet and happy there at the helm, and nodded a smile to him, which he returned with a flash of his teeth.  He loved his boat; he asked nothing better than to watch her behaving just as she was doing.  And the other boys seemed quiet and happy too, lying along the sides of the house, ready for the captain’s order, but meanwhile content to look up at the great sails, and down again at the sea.

We were a ship and a ship’s crew all at peace with one another, and contented with ourselves—­rushing and singing and spraying through the water.  We were all friends—­sea, and sails, and crew together.  I couldn’t help thinking that a mutiny would be hard to arrange under such a combination of influences.

Tom was sitting forward, plaiting a rope.  For all our experiences together, he never implied that he was anything more than the ship’s cook, with the privilege of waiting upon me in the cabin at my meals.  But, of course, he knew that I had quite another valuation of him, and, as our eyes met, I beckoned to him to draw closer to me.

“Tom,” I said, “I have found my treasure.”

“You don’t say so, sar.”

“Yes!  Tom, and I rely upon you to help me to guard it.  There are no ghosts, this time, Tom,” I added—­as he said nothing, but waited for me to go on—­“and no need of our sucking fish....”

“Are you sure, sar?” he asked, adding:  “You can never be sure about ghosts—­they are always around somewhere.  And a sucking fish is liable at any moment to be useful.”

I opened my shirt in answer.

“There it is still, Tom; I agree with you.  We won’t take any unnecessary chances.”

This comforted the old man more than any one could have imagined.

“It’s all right then, sar?” he said.  “It will come out all right now, I’m sure—­though, as I wanted to say”—­and he hesitated—­“I had hoped that you had forgotten those treasures that—­”

“Go on, Tom.”

“That moth and rust do corrupt.”

“I know, dear old Tom, but neither moth nor rust can ever corrupt the treasure I meant—­the treasure I have already found.”

“You have found the treasure, sar?” asked Tom, in natural bewilderment.

“Yes, Tom, and I am going to show it to you—­to-morrow.”

The old man waited, as a mortal might wait till it pleased his god to speak a little more clearly.

“Quite true, Tom,” I continued; “you shall see my treasure to-morrow; meanwhile, read this note.”  Tom was so much to me that I wanted him to know all about the details of the enterprise we shared together, and in which he risked his life no less than I risked mine.