“Here, you’ve gone and loaded that hole to have the laugh on me; now just own up!” he exclaimed, finally, throwing up his hands as if surrendering.

“Honest Injun, I never set eyes on a single one of the lot before now.  You can see they’re awfully rusty, too, and need oiling, because they’ve been lyin’ in that cubbyhole lots of months.  I’ve had the Tramp nearly a year now, and the old fisherman built it himself, he told me, meaning some day to float down the Mississippi.  Just to think that we’re doing it instead of him.”

“Sure there’s no more of ’em inside that bully old cache?” demanded Maurice, laughing as he surveyed the pile of rusty traps, which no doubt has once been used by the former owner of the boat to add to his scanty income by supplying him with numerous pelts of muskrats in the swamp not far from the town on the Ohio.

“I reckon I got the whole bunch; but no harm in making one more try,” and as he spoke Thad pushed his arm again into the dark opening.

Maurice watched him as if amused.

“Another, eh?” he laughed, as he saw Thad draw back, with an exclamation of surprise and wonder.

“No trap this time; but something else poor old The must have shoved in there for safe-keeping.”

When he held the object up Maurice saw that it seemed to be a little packet, wrapped in a dingy piece of oiled cloth.

“Well, I declare, that’s mighty queer.  Looks like the old fellow used that hole for keeping his valuables in.  Bring it over to the light, Thad, and let’s take a peep at it.”

Thad was only too eager to do so, for somehow the fact of finding a treasure-trove aboard the Tramp excited him not a little.

So he knelt down beside the rough little table that served them in so many capacities, yet which could be turned up against the cabin wall in case more room was needed at any time.

“Here, take my knife and cut that cord,” said Maurice, when his chum had been clumsily fingering the wrapping that bound the odd little packet for what to him seemed an unnecessarily long time.

“Guess I’ll just have to,” observed Thad, with a grin; “since my fingers all seem like thumbs.  Here she goes, then,” and he started to use the keen edge of the steel blade.

“Wonder what it is,” remarked the other, his eyes glued curiously on the packet, which was not more than five or six inches in length.

“Feels just like a book,” returned Thad, starting to unwrap the cloth that bound the object in its waterproof folds.

“A book, eh?  Like as not some sort of diary.  I’ve never heard you talk much about the old fellow; was he educated at all, and could he write d’ye think?” demanded his comrade, with awakening interest.

“Sure he could.  Well, what did I tell yo?  It’s a book all right, and p’raps old The kept a record of the fish and muskies he caught winter and summer.  He was a queer old duck, though he did seem to think a heap of me.  Wow! look at that, would you!”