Robbery Under Arms Rolf Boldrewood (best way to read an ebook .TXT) 📖

using his head when he could use his hands, said, “What was the use of bothering over his scribblings and scratchings? Most likely the old cove was half cracked and meant nothing.”

But it struck me different. He wasn’t very mad, for all I could see. Only he had his reasons for living by himself, like us, only they were not likely to be the same as ours. He’d been sharp enough to search for gold and find some. He’d travelled in Mexico, or he wouldn’t have known anything about a cradle. No; he wasn’t very mad, and I was going to study over these letters on the slabs, and see if I could make anything out of them.

Jim said I was welcome, only he’d have up the hearthstone⁠—it was a tremendous big heavy slab of sandstone; he believed we’d find something under it. Anyhow, the other fellows hadn’t gone to the bother of having it up; it had never been stirred, we could see by the way the couch grass had grown all round it.

So Jim set to work with the pick and spade, and very soon raised such a heap of dirt round about that he half filled up the room. I went on with the letters. I could see here and there, among all kinds of other scratchings, the letters DDW, with the figures 68 y⁠⸺ e⁠⸺ underneath, or near about somewhere.

“Now, what does this mean?” I said to myself. “It means something. See how deep it’s cut here. He must have been hours and hours over it.”

“Mean?” says Jim, looking up from his work. “Why, David Daniel West, or whatever his dashed old name was (confound him, there’s twice as much of this stone underneath as I thought for), and he was sixty-eight years old when he died. That’s a lot to find out, ain’t it?”

I’m pretty obstinate, worse luck, and don’t like to be beat when I’ve once tackled a thing, so I wouldn’t own to it.

That’s too easy a thing if that was all he meant. His name mightn’t have been West, or anything like it. How was he to write 68 years as his age when he died⁠—years before he did die. They’re too carefully cut to be done when a man’s making ready to die.

“I give it up,” says Jim; “you take that, and I’ll take this; we’ll see who comes out nearest to it. I’ll find an iron chest full of gold and silver coins under this old stone.” Jim delved at a great batt. At last he got to the bottom of the stone; it was only squared on top. The underneath side was rough and three-cornered looking, and wedged into the ground. When he’d done this we got an old rail that was still sound⁠—you can’t lick ironbark⁠—and prised the stone up. Then Jim and I cleared away the whole of the earth and shoved down the pick all over it.

We found it hit something hard in one corner. We set to with a will, and soon had the rest of the mould out. There was a row of short split slabs, very solid, and hardly rotted at all. We weren’t long lifting these, I can tell you. There was a small hollow place slabbed all round. These were on the top. Inside of this was a fair-sized sheet-iron box⁠—not very solid or heavy⁠—we had nothing to do but to lift it up. It was closed with a common lock, and the key was in it. It was rusty and wouldn’t turn, but we got up the lid without any trouble to speak of. What did we see inside that iron box? Nothing but a lot of papers. A few old books written upon every day, half-a-dozen small canvas bags with minerals in them⁠—not gold⁠—and that was all.

We were disappointed.

“Well,” says Jim, “of all the sells I ever was in or heard of this beats. To think the old humbug should have been using the last days of his life in fixing up a swindle like this. I’ve half a mind to dig up his bones and bury them here. There’s lots of room now.”

“Better take home these papers and things and show them all to Starlight,” I said. “He can read all kinds of writing better than us. He may as well have a run through these papers as read yellow books all day.”

“All right,” says Jim, quite good natured again. It never lasted long with him. “It’s too late to go home tonight, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I said. “Boil the tea, and we’ll have something to eat. You can go and have an afternoon’s shooting. I’ll stay here and worry out a little more.”

“All right. I’ll see if I can knock over one or two of these lowans and a black duck or so. I’ve had no shooting lately.”

We had our dinner under a peach tree in the garden; and a pretty good one it was. We’d both got middlin’ hungry, and felt ready for the corned beef and bread and tea. After this we had a smoke, and then Jim picks up his gun and slings away towards the foot of the mountain up the gully.

I laid down there smoking and considering for a solid hour after he left. There was thick green grass under the tree; indeed, all over the old garden. It was like a carpet, and the sun had warmed it a bit. So I felt that comfortable, looking first at the pink peach blossoms close by and over to the dark-looking mountain beyond, and then up to the bright blue sky, with the bit of a breeze and the sun warm, only not hot nor scorching, that I felt as if I could lay there and smoke and dream away for ever.

Then I got thinking over the letters on the wall, D.D.W. Suppose they stood for something besides his name? It seemed such a slow thing to be always cutting out the