By Shore and Sedge by Bret Harte (first e reader txt) 📖

at Renshaw, significantly, and making signs behind his daughter’s back.

Rosey, conscious of her lover’s irritation, and more eager to soothe his impatience than from any faith in her suggestion, interfered. “Why not examine the place where he was concealed? he may have left some traces of his search.”

The two men looked at each other. “Seem’ ez I’ve turned the Pontiac over to Sleight jist ez it stands, I don’t know ez it’s ‘xactly on the square,” said Nott doubtfully.

“You’ve a right to know at least WHAT you deliver to him,” interrupted Renshaw brusquely: “Bring a lantern.”

Followed by Rosey, Renshaw and Nott hurriedly sought the lower deck and the open hatch of the forehold. The two men leaped down first with the lantern, and then assisted Rosey to descend. Renshaw took a step forward and uttered a cry.

The rays of the lantern fell on the ship’s side. The Lascar had, during his forced seclusion, put back the boxes of treasure and replaced the planking, yet not so carefully but that the quick eye of Renshaw had discovered it. The next moment he had stripped away the planking again, and the hurriedly-restored box which the Lascar had found fell to the deck, scattering part of its ringing contents. Rosey turned pale; Renshaw’s eyes flashed fire; only Abner Nott remained quiet and impassive.

“Are you satisfied you have been duped?” said Renshaw passionately.

To their surprise Mr. Nott stooped down, and picking up one of the coins handed it gravely to Renshaw. “Would ye mind heftin’ that ‘ere coin in your hand—feelin’ it, bitin’ it, scrapin’ it with a knife, and kinder seein’ how it compares with other coins?”

“What do you mean?” said Renshaw.

“I mean that that yer coin—that ALL the coins in this yer box, that all the coins in them other boxes—and ther’s forty on ‘em—is all and every one of ‘em counterfeits!”

The piece dropped unconsciously from Renshaw’s hand, and striking another that lay on the deck gave out a dull, suspicious ring.

“They waz counterfeits got up by them Dutch supercargo sharps for dealin’ with the Injins and cannibals and South Sea heathens ez bows down to wood and stone. If satisfied them ez well ez them buttons ye puts in missionary boxes, I reckon, and ‘cepting ez freight, don’t cost nothin’. I found ‘em tucked in the ribs o’ the old Pontiac when I bought her, and I nailed ‘em up in thar lest they should fall into dishonest hands. It’s a lucky thing, Mr. Renshaw, that they comes into the honest fingers of a square man like Sleight—ain’t it?”

He turned his small, guileless eyes upon Renshaw with such childlike simplicity that it checked the hysterical laugh that was rising to the young man’s lips.

“But did any one know of this but yourself?”

“I reckon not. I once suspicioned that old cap’en Bowers, who was always foolin’ round the hold yer, must hev noticed the bulge in the casin’, but when he took to axin’ questions I axed others—ye know my style, Rosey? Come.”

He led the way grimly back to the cabin, the young people following; but turning suddenly at the companionway he observed Renshaw’s arm around the waist of his daughter.

He said nothing until they had reached the cabin, when he closed the door softly, and looking at them both gently, said with infinite cunning—

“Ef it isn’t too late, Rosey, ye kin tell this young man ez how I forgive him for havin’ diskivered THE TREASURE of the Pontiac.”

 

… … …

 

It was nearly eighteen months afterwards that Mr. Nott one morning entered the room of his son-in-law at Madrono Cottage. Drawing him aside, he said with his old air of mystery, “Now ez Rosey’s ailin’ and don’t seem to be so eager to diskiver what’s become of Mr. Ferrers, I don’t mind tellin’ ye that over a year ago I heard he died suddenly in Sacramento. Thar was suthin’ in the paper about his bein’ a lunatic and claimin’ to be a relation to somebody on the Pontiac; but likes ez not it’s only the way those newspaper fellows got hold of the story of his wantin’ to marry Rosey.”

 

End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of By Shore and Sedge, by Bret Harte