“Don’t forget those pearls from the Caribbean, as large as plums,” Johnny smiled.  “I could never quite swallow that.  A pearl the size of a currant would buy our freedom right now.”  After a moment he went on, more seriously:  “I’ve a notion to look into that old well this very afternoon.  I—­I dare say I’m foolish, but—­somehow the story doesn’t sound so improbable as it did.  Perhaps it is worth investigating—­” He made up his mind swiftly.  “I—­I’m off this very instant.”

When O’Reilly emerged from the hut he found Jacket industriously at work over a fragment of grindstone which he had somewhere unearthed.  The boy looked up at his friend’s approach and held out for inspection a long, thin file, which he was slowly shaping into a knife-blade.

“What do you think of that?” he queried, proudly.  “It may come in handy when we are ready to clear out of this pesthole.”

“Where did you get it?”

“Oh, I stole it.  I steal everything I can lay my hands on nowadays.  One can never tell when he may have a throat to cut, and a file has good steel in it.”

“Since you are such an accomplished thief, do you think you could steal something for me?” O’Reilly inquired.  “A piece of rope?”

“Rope?” Jacket was puzzled.  “Rope is only good for hanging Spaniards.  My friend in the fish-market has a volandra, and—­ perhaps I can rob him of a halyard.”  Laying aside his task, Jacket arose and made off in the direction of the water-front.  He was back within an hour, and under his shirt he carried a coil of worn, but serviceable, rope.  Without waiting to explain his need for this unusual article, O’Reilly linked arms with the boy and set out to climb La Cumbre.  When at last they stood in the unused quarry and Johnnie made known his intention to explore the old well Jacket regarded him with undisguised amazement.

“What do you expect to find down there?” the latter inquired.

“To tell you the truth, I don’t really expect to find anything,” the man confessed.  “Now that I’m here, I’m beginning to feel silly; nevertheless, I’m going to have a look for the hidden treasure of the Varonas.”

“Hidden treasure!” From Jacket’s expression it was plain that he feared his friend was mildly mad.  Even after O’Reilly had told him something about old Don Esteban’s missing riches, he scouted the story.  He peeped inquisitively into the dark opening of the well, then he shook his head.  “Caramba!  What an idea!  Was this old man crazy, to throw his money away?”

“He—­he had more than he knew what to do with, and he wished to save it from the Spaniards, “O’Reilly explained, lamely.

“Humph!  Nobody ever had more money than he wanted.”  The boy’s disgust at such credulity was plain.  “This well looks just like any other, only deeper; you’d better look out that you don’t break your neck like that foolish old woman, that Dona What’s-Her-Name.”

O’Reilly did indeed feel that he was making himself ridiculous, nevertheless he made the rope fast and swung himself down out of the sunlight, leaving Jacket to stand guard over him.  Perhaps fifteen minutes later he reappeared, panting from his exertions.  He was wet, slimy; his clothes were streaked and stained with mud.  Jacket began to laugh shrilly at his appearance.