“A piano!  That’s funny.  What would you buy next?”

“A stick of dynamite.”

“Dynamite!  What for?”

“To blow up the piano.”

“Why do you want to do that?”

“Well, you see the piano I’m going to buy belongs to a girl who lives next door to me at home.  She practises on it all day long.  Sometimes I get so I almost wish that she didn’t have a piano at all.”

Ed Mason voted for a horse, and I for a bicycle.

“I don’t see how we can dig up much treasure, anyway,” was Ed Mason’s comment, “not even if we find where it’s buried.”

“Why not?”

“What have we got to dig with?”

That was true,—­we had forgotten to bring shovels.

“Never mind, this is only prospecting,” Mr. Daddles reminded us.  “We’ll look around, and if we see any place that looks treasury, we’ll come back another time.”

We rowed around to the westerly side of Fishback Island, as the car-driver had suggested, and landed in a little pebbly cove.

Mr. Daddles was delighted with the appearance of the island.  “I don’t wonder they came here for treasure,” said he.  “It’s the most likely looking place for a pirate’s lair I ever saw in my life.  Look at that tree on the hill,—­a regular landmark.  And look at the smuggler’s cave!”

He pointed to a rocky cave on the shore, just above our landing-place.  We walked over to examine it, but we couldn’t find anything there except some egg-shells and paper boxes, where someone had eaten luncheon.  Then we started on an exploring trip around the island.  It was almost bare of trees, rocky in many places, and partly covered with scrubby grass.  We found half a dozen pits and shafts where the treasure-seekers had been at work.  We climbed the little hill where the tree stood,—­it was gnarled and broken, “a blasted tree” declared Mr. Daddles in rapture.

“Here’s where the treasure chest ought to be buried,” he remarked, “with the skeleton of a pirate or two on top of it.”

“This is where the old dead horse was buried,” Ed Mason observed, digging into some loose earth with his foot.

“That must have meant something,” I said.  “Why should they bring a horse way up here to bury him?”

“Perhaps they didn’t,” Ed replied, “perhaps the horse lived up here.”

“I’m afraid you were never made for a treasure-seeker,” said Mr. Daddles.

Jimmy Toppan pointed to the beach on the other side of the hill.  There was a smooth, sandy shore.

“Why not go in swimming down there?” he suggested.

The idea was a good one; we were not making much progress toward finding any treasure, and the beach certainly looked like a good place for a swim.  The three of us ran down the hill, pulling off our clothes as we ran.  Mr. Daddles lingered for a while, but presently joined us, and we all had a swim.