There was a heart that fluttered, and a hand that waved signals, from a point on the shore recognized by Tite, and responded to, but not seen by the little sorrowing group waiting the return of the boat. It was Mattie's heart that fluttered, and it was her hand that waved the last adieu as the ship passed out of sight. There she stood, a touching picture of truth and love, shedding her tears and waving a last farewell to the object of her heart, and whom she might never see again.

Such are the transmutations of commerce that it would be a curious sight at this day to see a whaleship, under full sail, proceeding up or down the Hudson river. It was no uncommon sight then. The enterprising people of Hudson shared the whale-fishery business with New Bedford and Nantucket; their fleet of ships were fitted out in the very best manner, and some of the most famous whaling captains sailed from that port.



CHAPTER X.

MR. AND MRS. CHAPMAN DISAGREE FOR THE FIRST TIME.

A bright light burned in Chapman's parlor that night, and the ponderous Mrs. Chapman sat nursing her dignity in a great new rocking-chair. Her little pale-faced husband, with keen eyes, and his hair somewhat longer than usual, sat beside the lamp on the round table pouring over a book. There was an air of improvement about the parlor, an evidence, indeed, that the Chapmans had renounced their Dogtown habits, and were bent on getting up in the world. New carpets, new mirrors, new furniture, and window-curtains such as had not been seen in Nyack before, had been got from New York. You must make your style of living, Mrs. Chapman said, keep pace with the progress of the family. And it would not do to let those new, rich, and stylish people who were coming up from New York get ahead of you in the way of elegance.

Mrs. Chapman no longer condescended to prepare the sausage meat and pumpkin pies; in a word, to do the work of her own kitchen. She could afford, she said, to keep two "helps," a cook and a chambermaid, to take it easy and put on the lady, and to give evening parties that quite outdid in the way of nice little suppers anything their neighbors could give. There was, however, a number of people in Nyack who shook their heads at the pretensions of the Chapmans; said they were putting on too many airs, and made no response to Mrs. Chapman's invitations. Others, when a little scandal was necessary to keep up the interest of an evening, would insinuate that they had "originally" been very common and vulgar people. But now, like most New England people of that class, they were not only trying to force their opinions down other and honester people's throats, but had a way of meddling with business that did'nt concern them, and making themselves disagreeable generally. When Holbrook disappeared in disgrace, there were persons malicious enough to say that the Chapmans had better mend their own morals before they went to patching other people's up.

Mrs. Chapman could dress of an evening in silk, wear kid gloves that came from France, and had plenty of real French lace on her caps. Few persons in Nyack at that day could do such things and pass for honest people.

"My dear," said Mrs. Chapman, addressing herself to her small, but intellectually great, Mr. Chapman; "my dear." She paused for a moment, as her face assumed an air of seriousness. "We must turn our backs entirely on Dogtown. Dogtown won't do to elevate the family on. We never can rise in the world with Dogtown on our shoulders. And if we would live down that scandal brought on us by Holbrook, (an indiscretion, I think you called it,) we must keep our heads up." She paused, shook her head in pity, and raised her fat, waxy hands. "I can't sleep of nights, thinking of it. Lays a body's feelings out terribly. But he was so wonderfully clever." Her face brightened up as she said this. "Wonderfully clever," she interpolated. "It was his mental greatness I always subsided to and admired. Clever people have their weaknesses as well as people what are not as clever. I sometimes thought you had yours, my dear—"

"My dear!" interrupted Chapman, with an air of surprise, "what do you mean? Hav'nt I been a finished husband, and a loving father?"

"You are just as good, my dear, as husbands can be made." Mrs. Chapman said this condescendingly, and with an air of admiration truly grand. "But then, you know," she said, more mildly, "there was that handsome widow you used to be so polite to, my dear. You know I detected her waving a handkerchief once. Then you said it was one you left at the house; and so I never thought of it again."

"I never let the past trouble me, my dear, never. A man of forethought, of progressive ideas, looks always ahead, and by his acts proves that he is up square with the spirit of the age. I have a new conception. Yes, my dear, a new conception. Nothing figurative about it, my dear. I have a new and grand conception, which I have been evolving in my mind for some time, and now I am getting it into a scheme which I am sure will be profitable."

"My dear husband," said Mrs. Chapman, in a strain of intense excitement, "do let us know what it is."

"Of great importance to us both," he replied, with great seriousness, as he brushed his long black hair back over his parchment-like forehead.

"I'll be bound it refers to what took place to-day between our Mattie and that young sailor. I saw it all; and you saw it all, too, my dear, and you never said a word. We never can agree on that matter, my dear, never. On everything else we can. You can't mistake what two young people mean when they go to waving handkerchiefs, and picking wild flowers in the woods. This little love matter must be stopped before it gets into a big one. Yes, it must, my dear. So fine a young woman as our daughter condescending to marry a sailor! As I said before, my dear, you know I have had experience in these matters—"

"In other matters, you know, Mrs. Chapman, I have always yielded to you—"

"And I have always yielded to you," resumed the anxious woman, "and never considered it a condescension. But in this I must have my own way." And Mrs. Chapman got up and walked to a window overlooking the Tappan Zee. The night was bright and starlight, and shadows were flitting and dancing over the smooth waters. The picture of the ship, with Tite waving Mattie an adieu from the forecastle, haunted her mind.

"If that ship goes to the bottom of the sea, not a tear shall I shed—not a tear!" resumed the speaker, in an agitated tone. "And I have as tender a heart as anybody. But we must elevate the family. That's laudable, you know. Nice people are very particular about these things. And you know how much there is in names. Think of elevating the family by taking a man by the name of Toodlebug into it! Think of our going to live in New York with such a name. Everybody would say Toodlebug! Toodlebug! and nobody would come to our daughter's parties." The good woman ran on in this way for several minutes, compelling her dear Chapman to keep the peace. At length she settled back into her rocking chair, and there was a pause.

"My dear," said Chapman, meekly, "I have always held that a man could commit no greater folly than that of quarrelling with a woman on a question of family pride. In such a contest the man is sure to get the worst of it. I say this understandingly, my dear." And Chapman shut up his book, and looked up into his wife's face, as if to watch the changes of her countenance.

"We may agree on that matter yet, my dear. A man is never so low by birth (I mean in this country, at least,) but that he may rise to the highest office of honor and trust—"

"Not with such a name as Toodlebug—never!" Mrs. Chapman interrupted, curtly.

"That's a mistake, my dear. Names never distinguished people. A man's merit and money are the things that do it. This is a free country. A woman may have as many quarrels as she pleases, and have her own way in things generally. Nothing personal, my dear.

"But to go back to what I was pondering over when you interrupted me. A family never gets through the world easy without a solid basis; and I was thinking how to give a solid basis to our little family. Marrying is all well enough in its way; but the woman who marries a man without a solid basis, either in money or character, marries into misery. That's my philosophy—"

"Exactly!" interrupted Mrs. Chapman, with a stately nod of the head, and rubbing her fat hands. "Now you talk as I like to hear you. There's no getting up in the world without money."

"I intended to make that point in my logic, and was coming to it, my dear. You see, we have got the building and everything in it, all our own. And we have got two or three thousand dollars, all put away for a wet day. Property all honorably made. Heaven knows I would not have a dollar that was not. That, my dear, is a good beginning for a good basis. We must keep adding to it; keep the tide flowing in the channel of success. I was thinking, my dear, of inventing a new religion."

"My dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Chapman, with an air of astonishment, "what an inventive head you have got. But you have said so often that there was too much religion in the world, and not enough of true goodness."

"Of the old kind, I meant, my dear;" resumed the little man. "What I mean is to invent a religion that is new and novel, has something broad and attractive in it, and that people of a curious turn of mind would pay for enjoying. That's the kind of religion that pays, you see. And if we could put the church on its feet again with something of that kind. It's the propensity people have to go galloping after new things in religion that we must study and turn to our advantage if we would be prosperous." The little man fretted his fingers nervously through his unkept hair, and his face assumed an air of great seriousness.

"How, my dear," enquired Mrs. Chapman, "could you put the church on its feet with such a load of scandal on its back? Could'nt you invent something else that would be novel and profitable?"

"There's where my new conception was coming in. That's the point I was considering when you interrupted me with Mattie's love affair," Chapman replied, looking more serious than ever.

"It struck me that we might do something profitable by getting up a company for the discovery of Kidd's treasure. 'The Great Kidd Discovery Company' would be a good name, my dear. You must always give a company a good name. Then you must manage it with tact and prudence. A prodigious enterprise, my dear. These simple-minded and honest Dutch people would fall into it like a flock of sheep. They honestly believe Kidd was a bold pirate, who amassed a great fortune by plundering towns on the Spanish Main. That, having more gold and silver than he could invest to advantage, he buried it on the bank of the river, a few leagues above this place, where he entered into an agreement with the devil to stand guard over it until he returned. They believe, also, that Hanz Toodleburg, whose father knew Kidd well, and perhaps had something to do with his adventures, is the only man now living who possesses the secret of where that treasure is buried."



CHAPTER XI.

MRS. CHAPMAN CULTIVATES NEW ACQUAINTANCES.

It was spring-time of the year 1824. A new era in the history of the nation's wealth and progress seemed to have fairly begun. Strong and vigorous intellects ruled in the councils of the nation and inspired confidence in the people. Science was breathing new life into our enterprise, and leading us rapidly into new fields and richer prospects. It was also brushing away the prejudices that had narrowed our thoughts and confined our action to things of a past age. Steam was an adjustable power now, a reality; still there were sensible men who shook their heads in doubt; and the men who declared it would soon revolutionize the commerce of the world were set down as not safe to do business with.

Steamboats of improved model and of increased size seemed to spring up every day, and might be seen passing up and down the Hudson night and morning. Now a company of reckless New Yorkers proposed to build a steamboat two hundred feet long, and with an engine of one hundred and fifty horse power, to navigate the Hudson to Albany at the rate of thirteen miles an hour. This great experiment, regarded so hazardous at that time, sent the honest and peace-loving Dutchmen along the banks of the river into such a state of alarm that they called meetings, and in the most solemn manner declared that no man's life would be safe while sailing at such a dangerous rate of speed. And they further declared that all these new-fashioned methods of putting an end to the lives of honest people must be stopped. In fine, they predicted nothing but distress and ruin on all who had anything to do with them.

It was at one of these meetings, held in Nyack about this time, and presided over by the school-master, that a number of these honest and peace-loving old settlers resolved, after much grave deliberation, that a man who paid his debts and was contented with what he had was the only true Christian. And it was further resolved, that the world was getting to be very wicked and very full of foolish people, who were in such a hurry to get to the devil before their time that they had devised these steamboats to carry them. And seeing that it was neither wisdom nor prudence for honest people to travel on such craft, they would also not send their vegetables to market on them.

This resolution was kept good for a number of years, the honest people who made it firmly believing that all good and prudent persons would follow their example, and in that way drive the steamboats from the river. Alarming as these things were, there were others which fairly frightened these honest people out of all their courage. The gossips had gathered in force at Titus Bright's inn one night, to enjoy a pipe and a mug of his new ale. There was the school-master, and Doctor Critchel, and Hanz Toodleburg, and other choice spirits, who knew all about the affairs of the nation. When they had discussed all manner of subjects, Titus drew from his pocket a newspaper and read, to the astonishment and evident alarm of his guests, that a man in England had invented a machine to do away with horses. The doctor set down his ale and adjusted his spectacles, and gazed at the speaker with an air of surprise and astonishment, while Hanz and the school-master suddenly ceased smoking.

"Now don't get alarmed, my friends," said Titus, watching with evident delight the increasing alarm of his guests. "It is all here, and true. He has invented a steam-horse, with an iron stomach and wheels; and the animal can, with good management, be made to run over a road at the rate of twenty miles an hour. Yes," added Titus, with a look of great seriousness, "people are already risking their lives by riding in this way."

The doctor heaved a sigh, and, half raising his pipe, gave it as his opinion that a man who would invent such dangerous machines must be in league with the devil. This profound opinion was endorsed by both Hanz and the school-master. The latter, in short, suggested that such men were generally vagabonds, whom it were well to throw into the Tappan Zee, with stones around their necks.

"If the world was going to the devil in this way, what was the use of living in it," inquired the school-master, finishing his ale, and passing his mug for a fresh draught.

"Sure enough, sure enough!" a number of voices ejaculated simultaneously.

"Truly, the dragons are to be let loose upon us," resumed Bright, passing the schoolmaster his mug of ale. "An' here's now in New York, that's got to be so wicked honest folks can't live in it, a lot o' crazy men talking about building one of these here steamboats big enough to cross the Atlantic."

"Der won't be much heerd of de mans nir de vomans vat goes in um," interrupted Hanz.

"Peoples is not sho crazy as t'too any un de sort. 'Tis all hombug;" joined the doctor.

"So I say, doctor!" interposed the school-master.

"Here it is, gentlemen," resumed Bright; "all down in the newspaper. No getting over that." Thus was this important subject discussed until a late hour, the gossips going to their homes with serious faces and heavy hearts.

It is a very well established fact that the question of building steamships large enough and strong enough to cross the ocean was discussed by a number of New York merchants who were ready to embark capital in the project, several years before the keels of the Royal William, the Savannah, the Sirius, or the Great Western were laid. But we must leave this subject for the present, and return to our friends, the Chapmans.

These people professed to be plain and practical, brought up according to the creed of New England. They also affected to despise the small vanities of the world. The effect of prosperity, however, on their natures was singularly instructive, since it entirely changed their manners. No sooner did fortune favor them than Mrs. Chapman began to display an ambition for vulgar show, such as well-bred people never indulge in. She never failed to remind her friends that she was brought up in Boston, where everything was very refined. She regarded it as a compliment to herself that she had an intellectual husband. He had a big head, if he was small, and could carry any number of books in it. That was what Boston people liked. Her thoughts seemed continually navigating between religion and the fashions. She had no deep affection or love for any one, not even for her daughter Mattie, whom she viewed in the light of a rather valuable ornament, in the disposal of which she must make the best bargain she could, not so much for the girl's sake as her own. She could toss her head as disdainfully as any of your fine dames; and she could discourse as glibly about genteel society as a successful milliner just set up for a lady. She had plain Mrs. Jones for a neighbor, and would drop that honest woman a nod now and then, out of mere politeness. But she never condescended to associate on terms of equality with the Jones family. Mrs. Jones's husband was a common, unintellectual sort of person, who retailed groceries for a living.

A singular and mysterious change had now taken place. Chapman no longer got up quarrels with his neighbors. Indeed, he had a good word to say whenever he met Titus Bright. He could shake hands with Doctor Critchel, and agree with the Dominie on matters of religion. In fine, if he was everybody's enemy before, he was now everybody's friend. He admired the Dutch for their honesty and true-heartedness. This singular change gave the gossips of the town something to talk about for a week. The Chapmans and the Toodleburgs were now the very best of friends. Chapman could be seen of an evening sitting in Hanz's little ivy-covered porch, enjoying a pot of ale. And Hanz had been seen smoking his pipe in Chapman's garden. All this meant something, the gossips said, and something of great importance. Where two such men got their heads together, and pipes and ale were called in, there was sure to be something deep going on. Hanz Toodleburg, they said, never smoked his pipe with a man like Chapman but that there was something in the wind. Then Mrs. Chapman and her gushing, blue-eyed daughter had condescended to visit at Toodleburg's, and could make themselves quite agreeable at Angeline's tea-table. And then Angeline, good, kind Angeline, with her face still bright with gentleness and love, was always so happy When Mattie called. Then there was something so simple, so frank and straightforward in Mattie's nature. Angeline could not help loving her. And the affection she cherished for Tite, who was the idol of her thoughts, strengthened the ties of their love.

"We have not forgot you, you see," said Mrs. Chapman, as she bowed herself into Toodleburg's little house one evening. "We expected company at home to-night, but says I to my dear husband, 'you know, my dear husband,' (here Mrs. Chapman bowed to her dear husband, who had followed her,) 'we have been promising so long to visit Mr. and Mrs. Toodleburg.'"

Angeline bowed and invited her visitors to be seated, while Hanz gave Chapman a hearty shake of the hand, and an assurance that no man was more welcome under his roof. "Always glad to see mine friends," said Hanz. "You shall take seats, and be shust so much at home as you is in your own house." And he drew one big chair up for Chapman, and another for Mrs. Chapman. "Peoples always makes themselves at home in mine house."

"You must excuse our humble little place," Angeline said; "we are plain, every-day people." And she made Mrs. Chapman a low courtesy, as that stout, bustling woman, apparently overcome with the heat, settled her solid circumference into a chair.

"Dear a me," rejoined Mrs. Chapman, "what happy people you ought to be. Everything so comfortable round you, you know, and all your own. What a blessing to have things all your own." Here Mrs. Chapman raised her bonnet carefully and used it as a fan.

"Yes, we are quite unpretending people," Angeline repeated. "What we have got is our own. We are getting old now, and if we die owing nobody a shilling we shall die in peace." And her sweet face lighted up with a smile, the true reflex of that goodness her heart was so full of.

"It's so warm—I'm about melted," rejoined Mrs. Chapman, not appearing to notice what Angeline had said. "And this is my new bonnet, you see. Bonnets cost so much money now. People are getting so fashionable, and to be anybody you must keep up appearances." She held her bonnet up admiringly. "And my dear, good husband there—he's such a good husband—says I'm a very expensive wife. Always buys me what I want, though." Here she raised her waxy, fat hand, and dropped a bow of approval to the little husband, who was quietly surveying the scene from Hanz's big chair. "My husband is so intellectual, and does so much for other people. He's always doing for other people. But he's a treasure to me, for all that—"

"My dear, my dear," interrupted Chapman; "what a kind way you have of paying compliments. Mrs. Toodleburg will not understand you, my dear. What more than any one else have I done for other people?"

"You have been a perfect Christian, my dear, so you have," resumed Mrs. Chapman, giving her head a toss and pressing the fore-finger of her right hand on the arm of the chair. "Why, Mrs. Toodlebug—pardon me; I never did pronounce names correct." She turned condescendingly to Angeline. "You must know that my dear husband created a whole town once. Then he built a great and flourishing church, founded on advanced moral ideas. And he intended to have sold it for the good of others, and would have sold it, but for an unforeseen circumstance."

"A very unforeseen circumstance, my dear," rejoined Chapman, shaking his head admonishingly. "You see, I have got one of the very best wives in the world. She has a philosophy of her own, and we agree in everything."

"Shust like me and mine vife," said Hanz. "We agrees in everything. Lived dese forty nor more years togeder, mitout a quarrel." Hanz had been sitting where a pale shadow of the dim light played over his broad, kindly face, and, with his long, white hair curling down his neck, gave a clearer outline to the picture.

"Never had even a little quarrel?" resumed Mrs. Chapman, inquiringly. "I have heard married people say it was so nice to have a little quarrel now and then. But my dear husband is such a good husband, Mrs. Toodleburg. Just like yours." Here she turned toward and dropped Angeline a bow. "I never want to live to see the day when I shall have to marry a second husband." Here she turned and dropped a bow to her dear Chapman. "I should be always praising you, my dear. And unless my dear second husband was a saint there would be trouble in the house, you know. My dear, let us drop this subject. It is not pleasant to look to far into the future." Here she turned to Angeline, who had proceeded to get some strawberries and cream for her guests.

"You are so nice and comfortable here," she resumed; "it takes one back to the good old times, when everything was true and simple." Mrs. Chapman gave quicker motion to her tongue. "You have your loom, and your spinning-wheel, and homespun made by your own hands. How delightful."

"My dear, my dear," interrupted Chapman; "what a homily on the beauties of economy you are reading our friends—"

"Don't interrupt me, my dear," resumed Mrs. Chapman, and she again turned to Angeline. "Do you know, Mrs. Toodlebug, that I have always felt that we ought to be the best of friends?"

"You are very kind," said Angeline, "very kind. We are very plain people."

"That's why I like you all the better," Mrs. Chapman resumed, with an air of condescension. "My husband and your husband must also be the best of friends. They can make a fortune by it, you know. You see, my husband proposes to make your husband's fortune. He is the greatest man to make other people's fortunes. Yes, he is. My husband's head is full of great progressive ideas. And he has made the fortunes of so many men." Here Mrs. Chapman lowered her voice to a whisper, and drew her chair a little nearer to Angeline. "There is another little matter that should make us firm friends. I would not mention it, you know; but I feel that it is no secret." Here she dropped one of her most significant bows. "I have taken such a liking to your son. Such a promising young man, he is. That voyage will make a man of him; who knows but he may come home with a large fortune. I have known stranger things than that. I have been encouraging a little love affair between him and my daughter Mattie. You have seen my Mattie? She is clever, wonderfully smart, handsome, too; and if she gets the right kind of a husband, will shine in society."

"My poor boy, my poor boy!" exclaimed Angeline, her eyes filling with tears at the mention of his name. "How, how, how I should like to see him to-night. There is where he used to sit, (here her voice yielded to her emotions,) and here is the chair we always kept for him. Perhaps we shall never see him again. He was so good and so kind to us. I hope God will be good to him, and will watch over him, and carry him safe through dangers, and bring him back to us. Oh, I know God will be good to him. We are both old now, and have nothing to live for but him." Again she gave way to her grief, and as the tears flowed buried her face in her hands.

"My dear, good friend," rejoined Mrs. Chapman, rising from her chair, and placing her hand consolingly on Angeline's shoulder; "there is nothing in the world to weep for. Nothing in the world. I would be proud of a son who had courage and ambition enough to go on one of these voyages. It is proof, my good woman, that he has something in him. And if he should bring home a fortune, you know. Oh, he'd have so many friends. Don't weep, my good woman, don't weep. He'll be such a joy to you when he comes home. And I will encourage Mattie to think of nobody else."



CHAPTER XII.

A STRANGE GENTLEMAN.

Angeline had just recovered from her grief, and was setting strawberries and cream before her visitors, when a loud knock was heard at the door, which Hanz proceeded to open; when a tall, well-dressed man, with dark, well kept hair, piercing black eyes, features of great regularity, and having the manners of a gentleman, entered and introduced himself as Mr. Luke Topman, just from New York. "I am a stranger to you all here," he said, in a deep, clear voice, "and I owe you an apology for calling at this seemingly late hour. I said I was a stranger," he repeated, "but the business I am on may make us acquaintances." The stranger stood for a moment, with his eyes fixed on Chapman. Still no recognition passed, and their manner was that of strangers who had never met before.

The figures here grouped together were of the most opposite kind, and presented a picture at once striking and effective. A table stood in the centre of the little room, and on it burned a candle, casting a pale and shadowy light over and giving clearer outline to each figure. There was the old loom, with its harnesses, its reed, and its shuttles; the flax-wheel and the distaff, forming a quaint setting, but representing a past age and the primitive habits of the people who used them.

There was Hanz and Angeline on one side. Time was writing its record in deep lines on their faces, and whitening their gray hairs. Frank, simple-minded, honest, and contented, they had enough to carry them through life comfortably; and why should they, Hanz said, trouble themselves about anything more? They represented an age and a people perfectly happy with what it had pleased God to give them. On the other side there was Chapman and Mrs. Chapman, exact types of the people they represented. Ambitious of making a show in the world, grasping, restless, selfish, intriguing, seeking always for means to advance themselves, studying the future for their own advancement, and ready to use even religion as an assistant to gaining their objects. Such was the contrast presented in the picture before us.

Again apologizing for calling at what seemed a late hour, the stranger proceeded. "I am in great haste, madam. I came all the way from New York to-day. Crossed the ferry only an hour ago, and am somewhat fatigued. My business is of great importance, and with Mr. Toodleburg. I was directed here, and am glad to find him so comfortably situated."

"Very well, very well," rejoined Hanz, his face lighted up with a smile, and his white hair flowing; "dat's me, mine friend. You be's welcome to my little home. Yees, mine friend, you shall be so welcome as I can make you." Hanz shook him heartily by the hand, and invited him to sit down. "You be's had no shupper, eh?" he resumed. "Der's no man what comes nor goes hungry to my house."

The stranger bowed and said, "Thank you—you are very kind; but I supped on the other side of the sea, and have no need for any more."

"Mine gracious!" exclaimed Hanz. "You comes all de way from New York to she me. You eats anoder shupper, shure."

The stranger persisted that he would eat no more that night. The appearance of the man at so late an hour excited serious apprehensions in the mind of Angeline lest he should bring news of some disaster to the good ship Pacific.

Then turning to Mrs. Chapman, he said, "I hope, madam, I have not intruded on your privacy here to-night?"

That lady, having dropped him one of her best bows, assured him there was nothing private so far as she was concerned. "We are friends and neighbors of these good people," she replied with a forced smile and an air of condescension. "We like to be neighborly, and just dropped in to make a friendly call. That's all, sir."

"I am very glad to meet Mr. Toodleburg. Very glad to find him such an excellent person," the stranger repeated, turning to Hanz, and again taking him by the hand. "Topman, I said my name was; Luke Topman, senior partner of the enterprising house of Topman and Gusher, doing a large miscellaneous business in Pearl, near Wall street. You are, doubtless, well acquainted with the reputation of the firm." Here Mr. Topman compressed his lips, brushed his fingers through his hair, and addressed himself to Chapman, who up to this time had maintained an air of indifference to what was going on.

"Perfectly well," replied Chapman, with an air of surprise. "Highly respectable and equally responsible house, that. Why, sir, it is somewhat curious that we should meet here. A relative of mine did business with that house a long time. Highly satisfactory—highly."

"We endeavor to make everything satisfactory with our customers," resumed Mr. Topman. "Happy to have met a gentleman so familiar with the reputation of our house. Pray, may I enquire to the name?"

"Chapman—Bigelow Chapman. My wife, Mr. Topman; my enlarged and better half. Mr. Topman, my dear, of the firm of Topman and Gusher. Doing a large miscellaneous business, and highly respectable."

"What a strange meeting this is. You used to know each other? How curious!" interposed Mrs. Chapman, rising from her seat and dropping Mr. Topman one of her most stately bows.

"By reputation. Perhaps I should have said general reputation, my dear," returned Chapman. During all this time Hanz was kept in ignorance of the object of the stranger's visit. Yet the whole scene was such as could not fail to excite his curiosity to the very highest pitch.

"And now," said the stranger, "as the night is warm, and ladies never care to hear anything about business, I propose, Mr. Toodleburg, that we retire to the porch. You can enjoy your pipe, there; and, if you will permit me, I will enjoy a cigar. Our friend, here—he will permit me to call him so—will join us."

The three now proceeded to the porch; where, when they had become seated, the stranger discovered the object of his visit. "I have been informed on good authority," said Mr. Topman, "that you possess the secret of where Kidd's treasure is buried—"

"Vel, vel, vel!" exclaimed Hanz, raising his hands in astonishment; "if dat ish'nt so pig a lie as ever vas told. No, mine friend, I knows nothin' apout dis Mr. Kidd, nor his money. Dis one big lie de peoples pout here gits up, as has nothin' petter to do."

"It's somewhat singular," said Chapman, fixing his keen black eyes on the stranger, "it was that that brought me here to-night. Mr. Toodleburg may be innocent of all knowledge of Mr. Kidd, as he says. But the people sincerely believe that he does, and that he possesses the secret of where his treasure is buried. The belief is just as good as the reality, and may be made equally profitable."

"Exactly," interposed Mr. Topman, "exactly! Just what I was going to suggest." Here Mr. Topman put his thumbs in the arms of his waistcoat, and drummed on the front with his fingers. "If these honest people believe Mr. Toodleburg knows where the money is buried, why, sir, there's your solid basis for a grand joint stock company, dividends twenty per cent., payable quarterly. That's what takes. God bless me, Mr. Toodleburg, here's a fortune in your fingers. Capable heads, sir, and capable hands. There's all, sir, that is required to give the thing popularity and insure its success." Mr. Topman paused for a moment, threw himself back in his chair, and cast a patronizing glance at Hanz. "Progressive idea, sir. Grand Kidd Discovery Company. Capital one hundred thousand dollars, all paid in. The man fortunate enough to get twenty shares is sure to make a fortune."

"Den if he pe so grand, why you don't make all de fortune, and keep him yourshelf?" said Hanz, rubbing his head and dropping his pipe.

"Having the secret," resumed Mr. Topman, blandly, "of course you are indispensable to the success of the enterprise. Think of it, sleep over it, and I am sure, sir, you will wake up in the morning resolved to place yourself in the hands of Topman and Gusher." Mr. Topman made another pause, and threw his hands over his head. "No matter whether you have the secret or not. Stick to it that you have; and refer your men to Topman and Gusher."

Again Hanz shook his head, and smoked his pipe thoughtfully. The whole thing was new and strange to him. Never in his life before had anything taken him by such surprise. He had enough to carry him through the world comfortably, and something to give his poor neighbors when they stood in need. Why should he trouble his head about Mr. Kidd. He did not know where a dollar of his money was buried.

"Mine friends," said Hanz, "I likes you poth. And I thanks you, and ish much opliged to you for dis offer to makes my fortune. But, what I do mit sho much moneys, eh? My neighbors all say 'Hanz Toodleburg steals him,' Maybe I gits prout mit him. Den everypody says Hanz Toodleburg gits apove his pisness. Mit a fortune perhaps t'tivel gits into mine head. Der ish nopody now put me und mine Angeline—"

"There's your son, Mr. Toodleburg," interposed Chapman, who until now had remained almost passive. "You ought to regard him above everything else, you ought. I feel a deep interest in that young man, you know. If you could have a fortune for him when he comes home—well, that would be the making of him."

"Shure enough, dere ish mine poor poy, Tite. He ish such a goot poy. It most preaks his muder's heart to have him go dis long voyages," said Hanz, taking the pipe from his lips, as his eyes filled with tears. "If I only could have a fortune und de little farm for mine poor Tite when he gits home."

"Give us your hand, sir," said Mr. Topman. "You talk now like a man, and a father. I'm a father, sir, and know how to feel for you. Had a son at sea four years. Gave him a fortune when he came home. A most enterprising and highly respected merchant now. Has ships at sea, rides in his carriage, and a balance in his bank." The thought of providing a future for Tite was more than Hanz could resist, and his unsuspecting nature yielded to the temptation.

"And now," said Mr. Topman, rising from his chair, "if Mr. Toodleburg will sign these papers—they merely set forth that he possesses and will confide to the house of Topman and Gusher, their heirs or assigns, the secret of where Kidd's treasure is buried, and that he shall have a tenth interest in all the profits. A sure gain and no risk, you know."

The three gentlemen now returned to the little room. Topman handed Chapman the paper, and requested that he would read it, which that gentleman affected to do.

"Perfectly straightforward and correct," said Chapman; "perfectly! I am sure you are very kind to these people, and I wish the great Kidd Discovery Company every success."

Angeline brought the little old ink-bottle, and Hanz, with feelings of hesitation, it must be confessed, signed the papers, when the visitors retired for the night.



CHAPTER XIII.

CAPTAIN BOTTOM, THE WHALE-KILLER.

On the morning of the 24th of June, the good ship Pacific was sailing gallantly down the coast of Brazil, all her canvass spread to a light breeze, her port tacks aboard, and heading for Bahia.

The air was hot with the breath of tropic winds, and the horizon to the west and south was festooned with fierce red clouds. The sun was just setting, and spreading the broad ocean with a crimson light, giving a weird and curious outline to every feature of the ship. There was something grand, even enchanting and sublime, in the picture here spread out, presenting as it did the highest example of God's goodness and reality.

The scene changed suddenly, as the sun disappeared. The fierce, red clouds melted into softness and tenderness. A pale, yellow light spread along the heavens and over the sea; and the ship that a few minutes before had looked like a white-winged phantom floating over a sea of fire, now assumed the appearance of a maiden decked in her bridal robes.

A man of short, stout figure, a sort of compromise between an alderman and a dwarf, with very short legs, a broad red face, wide mouth, crispy grey hair that stood nearly erect on his head, a red, punky nose, and keen, grey eyes, paced watchfully up and down the quarter-deck. He was dressed in white pantaloons and jacket, both fitting tight to his skin, and wore a Panama hat, with a long black ribbon streaming behind.

He would pause at the hand-rail every few minutes, scan eagerly along the sky from north to south, as if studying the strange and sudden changes that were going on in the heavens. Then he would exchange a few words with the officer of the watch, and resume his walk. Eight bells had just struck, the wind began to freshen and veer to the southwest, and the sky became overcast and filled with white, fleecy clouds.

An order was given to take in studding-sails and get the ship "snug" for the night, and quickly obeyed. Order and regularity prevailed on board the good ship Pacific; and the promptness and cheerfulness with which both officers and men performed their duties showed that they had a more than ordinary interest in the ship and her voyage. Fashion had not then made slaves and idlers of our young men of wealthy parents, and it was, indeed, thought no disgrace for a gentleman of position to send his sons on one of these voyages, to do duty before the mast. It taught them how to face danger and endure hardships. It developed their manliness, and made them more self-reliant. It gave them a knowledge of the world they could not get elsewhere, and laid a good foundation for a fixed and lasting character. Indeed, some of our richest and most enterprising merchants have dated their prosperity from one of these voyages.

The short, bluff-looking man pacing the quarter-deck was Captain Price Bottom; and a more honest-hearted old salt never sailed the sea. His great skill in killing whales had made him famous among whalemen throughout the Pacific. He had made three successful voyages, bringing home cargoes that had enriched his owners, put money in his own pocket, and secured him a reputation he esteemed of more value than a fortune. In truth, he regarded whales just as a terrier does rats, and found his highest enjoyment in killing them. And yet nothing pleased him better than when a whale showed pluck, as he called it, and made a square, fierce fight for his life. A man had a chance then to show his skill and power over the brute, he said. He held, too, that man's highest object in life was to know how to kill a whale skilfully; and he heartily despised the whale "as would submit quietly to the harpoon, and die like a lubber." He also affected great contempt for the landsman who had lived like a gentleman, and never killed a whale in his life.

"There's no lunar to-night," said Captain Bottom, pausing at the quarter-deck rail, and addressing himself to the officer of the watch. "There's a goin' to be dirt, sir, there is; and them royals and topgallant-sails is got to cum in. Would'nt surprise me if we had to double-reef topsails afore mornin'. Tell you what it is, Mr. Higgins, there's that ar north star with a towel over her face again. Sink me if there'll be any lunar took to-night." The captain shook his head, gave his Panama a tip, and walking aft, stood beside the binnacle watching the compasses for several minutes. Then returning to where the officer of the watch stood, he resumed:

"Never made a bad landfall in my life, Mr. Higgins. Never shall be said of Captain Price Bottom that he lost his reckonin'. It's judgment; yes, Mr. Higgins, it's good judgment and sound sense what makes a good sailor. A man may cram his skull till it hurts with Bowditch, but if he hain't sense he'll never be a sailor. Same in killin' whales. If a man hain't got sense, the whale is sure to get the advantage of him." Again he paused, as if courting a reply; but Mr. Higgins merely bowed assent to everything the captain said, every few minutes keeping an eye aloft at the sails.

"Man what gets his navigation aboard ship knows his business. Got mine there; yes, sir! Did'nt know a Bowditch from a Bible when I went aboard ship. Can do my amplitude and variations now without looking at a nautical almanac. Can, sir, by Jove!"

The ship bounded gallantly over the sea, leaving in her wake a long silvery train of phosphoric light. Drawing no response from Mr. Higgins, the captain raised his night-glass and scanned along the heavens to the west. "We'll get somethin' out o' that quarter, butt end foremost," said the captain, lowering his glass.

Mr. Higgins was first officer of the ship, a position secured to him, not because he had worked his way up to it, but through the influence of a rich father, who was a large owner in the ship and her venture. He was a tall, well-formed, fine-looking young man, with delicate and well-cut features, and black hair. He was also a fine scholar and a perfect master of the theory of navigation, and a voyage or two to Europe had given him a slight knowledge of the practical part of it. Yet he was more an ornamental than a practical sailor; and it was this that made Captain Bottom, the whale-killer, hold him in no very high respect. Indeed, he had several times said, in the presence of Mr. Higgins, that it was all very well for a young gentleman to be a scholar; but a sailor what had his head full of books never made a fortune for his owners.

"Eight and forty hours more, Mr. Higgins! Yes, sir, eight and forty hours more—keepin' her as she's going—and we have the land off Bahia." Captain Bottom gave his head a significant shake as he spoke. "Using judgment, you see; not books, Mr. Higgins. Captain Price Bottom has sailed seventeen years, and never was deceived by that chart. Don't make charts now as they used to make 'em, Mr. Higgins," he concluded, shrugging his shoulders.

The wind now came over the sea roaring like a fierce lion, indicating the rapid approach of the gale.

"If we make land off Bahia in forty-eight hours, then I'm mistaken," rejoined the first officer, satirically. "There's something coming that will give us enough to do before morning."

The words had hardly escaped his lips when the full force of the gale struck the ship, roaring and shrieking through her shrouds, and nearly throwing her on her beam ends. The sea was soon lashed into a tempest, and made a clean sweep over her decks. The canvas was carried clean from the bolt-ropes, the sheets were let go, and the lighter sails clewed up, and an attempt made to get the ship's head to the wind and lay her to. But the mizzen-sails were all gone, and she fell off, and refused to obey her helm. The lashings had given way, and the larboard, waist, and quarter boats were all swept from the davits, the frames sprung, and every timber in the good ship's hull worked, and strained, and complained, like a frail thing that must soon go to pieces. Every order, however, was obeyed promptly and cheerfully, for both officers and crew felt that their lives, as well as the saving of the ship, depended on the way in which each man performed his duty.

Just before the gale came up five young men, including Tite, might have been seen grouped together in the waist of the ship, pondering over a chart. Several books and nautical instruments were lying around. They were all, except Tite, young men of wealthy parents, who had joined the ship to enjoy the excitements of a whaling voyage. These young men, with Tite, had formed a school of instruction, and every evening got together in the same place to improve their knowledge in practical navigation. One of them, a young man who had endeared himself to all on board by his courage and the gentleness of his manners, was third mate, and took a leading part in instructing the others. It would, indeed, have been difficult to find two young men whose characters bore a stronger resemblance than his and Tite's. Between them there grew up the strongest friendship.

The ship was now laboring in the trough of the sea, when a loud crash was heard aloft. The fore, main, and mizzen top-gallant masts had gone in rapid succession, and the swaying mass of wreck was threatening the destruction of the ship. Death now stared every one in the face. There was no hope of saving the ship and the lives of those on board, except in the strength and courage of those willing to go aloft and clear away the wreck. But who was there to do this perilous work?

Amidst the confusion caused by the excited elements there was the sturdy little captain, calm and cool, and giving his orders with that clearness and decision which had always characterized him. Men were called for to go aloft and cut away the swaying wreck, and save the ship. The first to obey this summons was young Tite Toodleburg, whose example was followed by the young man I have described as third mate, and one of his companions. They mounted the fore, main, and mizzen rigging, and working with all their strength and skill soon had the swaying wreck cut away, and the ship relieved of her strain. But in descending, the third mate, who had so gallantly performed his duty, lost his hold, and the ship giving a terrible lurch, he was plunged into the sea, and seen no more.

The ship now gradually righted, and with the aid of a storm-sail in her mizzen rigging, for her top-sail had been torn into shreds, her head was got to the wind.

In that latitude gales of this kind are of short duration, generally; and in half an hour from the time it struck the ship there was a calm, smooth sea, and all hands were engaged repairing damages.

On the following morning the ship was proceeding on her course, with a light breeze from the north and a clear sky. Captain Bottom was there on the quarter-deck, directing affairs, and in a talkative mood.

"She's a good ship, sir, this old Pacific is, Mr. Higgins;" said he, again addressing that officer. "Never knew her get off her feet before." He always spoke of the ship as if she were a thing of life. "Bless her staunch old soul! Made her timbers talk, eh? Wants a man as has got confidence in the craft what's under him. Then if she goes down, why he feels like being a hero and keeping her company.

"But it makes me feel bad, Mr. Higgins, that we have lost our third mate, poor fellow! He was a good sailor, and a brave young man, and had such good friends at home, who thought so much of him." And as he said this tears glistened in his eyes, and ran down his cheeks. "I'm sorry for that young man, I am, so I am, Mr. Higgins," said the old sailor, wiping the tears from his bronzed cheeks. "I do hope his soul will sail in peace in a better world." Again he shook his head sorrowfully, and then paused for a minute as if to regain control of his feelings. "God forgive me," he resumed, "for making a woman of myself. Don't do it often, Mr. Higgins."

"Shows that you have a kind heart, sir, and can shed a tear when it is touched. I appreciate you for it. There is something manly in the tear of a brave sailor," returned the officer, coldly, but politely. "We shall get a good observation to-day, and if the men work hearty all the spare spars and sails will be up by nightfall." Mr. Higgins's mind was evidently on his duty, and not being inclined to enjoy the captain's conversation, he took every opportunity to change the subject.

"Give us your hand, Mr. Higgins," said he, rather unannoyed than otherwise by what that officer had said. "But look you here!" He lowered his voice as he took the officer's hand, "There'll be no whales to kill where that poor fellow has gone. Not a whale. I promised his poor old father—a good old red coat killer he was, too, in the Revolution—that this here son of his should kill the first whale. Yes, I did, Mr. Higgins. And that's what mortifies me. He's dead, you see, poor fellow. T'was'nt my fault that I did'nt keep my promise. There'll be no whales to kill where he's gone, poor fellow!" Again he shook his head feelingly, then raising his hat, wiped the sweat from his bronzed brow.

He now sent for Tite, who came upon the quarter-deck nervously, and saluted his superior. "Well, my hearty," said Captain Bottom, "here's my hand. You're a sailor, every inch on you. And a brave man, too, if Captain Bottom does say it." Tite was not a little surprised at this familiarity on the part of his captain, for he had before coming on board been led to believe that the most severe discipline ruled on board a whale ship.

"There's the true sailor in you, my hearty," continued the captain, again shaking Tite warmly by the hand. "You saved the ship, my hearty. There'd a bin no more of the good old Pacific—God bless her! nor none of us standin' here, but for you, my hearty."

"I only done my duty, sir," rejoined Tite, modestly, as the color came into his face. "I hope, captain, to merit your praise to the end of the voyage." The young sailor made a bow, and was about returning to his duty.

"Avast, a bit," interrupted the captain. "Your name's Toodlebug, is'nt it, my hearty?"

"Yes, sir," replied Tite. "Titus Bright Toodleburg; usually called Tite. Hope, sir, to improve myself in navigation and seamanship under your command. I shall always feel proud, sir, that I sailed with you. Some one may trust me with a ship some day."

"That's the talk, my hearty; keep a sharp look ahead," rejoined the captain, his face lighting up with a smile. "Cram Bowditch into yer head, and keep a sharp look ahead. Have ye so ye can bring the sun down to dinner and put the north star in yer pocket afore ye get round Cape Horn. You'll be a sailor yet, my hearty." Again Captain Bottom shook Tite by the hand warmly.

"Git yer head full of navigation; and with good judgment to help ye out, ye can look an owner in the eye without winking, and tell him ye want a ship. And if that recommendation don't do, tell him you have killed whales with Captain Bottom, a man what never let a whale git the better of him. And if he has never heard of Captain Price Bottom, of the good old ship Pacific, then he never should own a ship, and don't sail for him. That's my advice, my hearty. So keep a sharp look out ahead." Here he tapped Tite on the shoulder, exultingly.

"It's very kind of you," returned Tite, modestly, "to take this interest in me, a stranger to you. I shall do my best to merit your confidence and respect."

"A stranger, eh? Not a bit of it!" resumed the captain, quickly. "Look ye here, my hearty. Your good old father and me was old friends. That was years ago, you know. Meeting you brings an old love affair of thirty years right back to my heart again. Yes, my hearty, that old feelin's just as good as new this minute. God bless yer father; and God bless yer mother, too! Here's a hand what'll always give a warm welcome to the son of old Hanz Toodlebug—"

"Then you knew my father? I hope, sir, I may never do anything to lessen your respect for him."

"Know'd him?" resumed the captain. "Yes, sir, and yer mother, too. And when Captain Price Bottom says he know'd a man, he means it. Your father and me was rivals!" Here he touched Tite on the elbow, and winked significantly. "That is—well, it's rather a delicate subject—he courted yer mother, and so did I! There, sir, there's just what it is. She was as trim a young craft then as ever spread sails, and as full of goodness and good looks." Captain Bottom again paused for a moment, shook his head despondingly, and placed his hand on his heart. "A number of young bloods like me trimmed their sails, but did'nt overhaul her. Many a heart-flutter she caused me in them days. And just when I thought, says I to myself, 'I'm to wind'rd,' and had got ready to make fast to her—" Here he paused for a moment, and then lowering his voice, continued: "Well, what does she go and do? Blow me, my hearty, if she did'nt go off and marry your father. That's what dismasted me. Never bore him nor her any ill-will. 'God bless ye both,' says I; 'may ye be happy and have a large family!' And it does me good to know that they was prosperous. Your father had a home to take a woman to, and that is what a woman should look to. Price Bottom was poor then, and without a shillin' in his pocket. It was disappointment that made me take to the sea, though. Went from the fo'castle t'where you see me now—Captain Price Bottom, sir, of the good ship Pacific. It's a man's own exertion that lifts him up in the world. There's my poor old woman at home to-night—God bless her and the two little ones! thinking of me, and praying for me, and wondering where we are. Laid her up a nice little fortune; wolf can't bark at her door. That's a gratification, my hearty. Made three successful voyages, you see. This, our fourth one, is to be the last. Keep a sharp look ahead, and there's a future for you, too. Ah, there'll be a heap of happiness a'tween me and my old woman when this voyage is ended. A true wife at home, and a lovin' husband at sea—ah, my hearty, them's jewels!"

Tite listened with surprise to the story of this strange and eccentric man. He had never heard either of his parents mention his name. He, however, regarded it as very fortunate that he should be on board a ship commanded by a captain who held his humble parents in such high regard. The jolly old sailor finished his story by enjoining Tite to keep what he had said a matter of confidence. He also made him third mate, to fill the place of the young man who fell from the fore-mast into the sea during the gale.

"You shall take a hand at killing the first whale; shall command the larboard boat. And you shall never want a friend while Captain Price Bottom treads this quarter-deck," he concluded.

Tite bowed, and thanked his benefactor again. He then proceeded to his duty, as the ship headed for Bahia, with a fair wind.



CHAPTER XIV.

THE COMING WINTER, AND A MERRY-MAKING.

November was come now. The day I write of was damp and cheerless. Grey, vapory clouds swept over the Tappan Zee, and a sad, sighing wind tossed it into crests. A drizzling rain fell over Nyack, and the little town looked as if it had just taken a bath and gone to sleep for the night. The hills wore a cold and bleak look, the foliage had lost its bright, golden tints, and now looked faded and colorless. The leaves, too, were falling, and the naked trees seemed weeping and cold. Sheep browsed on the hill-sides, or nibbled coldly under the branches of sheltering trees. In the wet, dripping barn-yard cattle were seen huddled together under a lee, now seeking warmth in the fresh shocks, now proclaiming their troubles in subdued lowing.

The very landscape seemed weeping and melancholy. Even the summer birds, whose songs give such a charm to the woods, were gone. And there was the loon upon the lake gabbling his welcome to the approaching winter. The rain, too, had filled the brooks, and their waters were gurgling down deep, shadowy dells, mingling their touching music with the sad, sighing wind. There were pleasant memories entwined in that departing summer; and it now seemed as if all nature was joining in a requiem to its fading beauties.

The settlers had gathered their winter fruit, and the cider-presses had finished their work for the season. Squashes were hung up in the cellar, the corn was shucked and in the bins, and heaps of ripe, lusty pumpkins stood in the fields. In the houses fresh flitches of bacon hung by the fireside, while festoons of dried apples decorated the beams overhead. There, too, were the young nut-gatherers, coming home of an evening with their well-filled satchels. There was to be peace and plenty at the settlers' fireside this winter, for an all-wise Providence had so ordained it in an abundant harvest.

It was a custom with Hanz Toodleburg, as it was also with many other of the settlers, to entertain his friends and neighbors with a merry-making when the harvest was gathered. Hanz had invited his neighbors on the evening of the day I have described, and notwithstanding the cold and cheerless character of the night, the little house was full ere it was dark. The bright, happy faces of the women, and the jolly, ringing laugh of the men, all dressed in their neat new homespun, presented a pleasant picture of rustic life. Each man came armed with a long pipe, while his good vrow had some little present for Angeline. Hanz had a warm, hearty shake of the hand for each of his guests. Indeed, he welcomed each of the good vrows with a kiss and an admonition to be happy while they were under his roof. And these good vrows put their hands to the wheel, and assisted Angeline in preparing the feast. Indeed, she soon had her table spread with as good and well-cooked fare as could be found in the county.

There was the cold boar's head, decorated with flowers; the fattest turkey, roasted before the great fire; boiled beef, bathed in odorous krout, and declared delicacies by every sturdy Dutchman; a spiced ham, decorated with vegetables. Then there were apple and pumpkin pies just baked, cuddled apples, and jam, and fresh cranberry sauce. And these were backed up with new cider and home-brewed ale, and coffee. Such was the supper Hanz had prepared for his friends, and which he invited them to eat and be happy.

The good-natured Dominie was there, and so was Doctor Critchel and the school-master. Nor was Titus Bright, the inn-keeper, forgotten. They were equally important characters in the settlement, and no honest Dutchman, who had any regard for his reputation for hospitality, would think of giving a merry-making without them. The good Dominie was fond of puddings and pies, and preached that the three highest objects a man had to live for were peace, contentment, and a good dinner. The Dutch regarded this as good enough religion for them—better, perhaps, than that preached by the man of the church of progressive ideas. The school-master could sing a good song, and, although an idle, shiftless fellow, got more invitations to supper than any other man in the settlement. As for the inn-keeper, he was a merry little man, who made everybody laugh, and was held in high esteem by all the good vrows around Nyack.

Now that the supper was ready, there was a general exchange of vrows, for it was not considered etiquette to sit at table with your own wife during one of these feasts. Then the Dominie invoked God's blessing on the bounties He had spread before them, thanked Him for the bountiful harvest, and for the love He had shown these happy people. He then proceeded to carve the boar's head, while every man and woman present went to enjoying the feast.

When supper was over and the table cleared away the men took to their pipes and discussed their crops, and the women discoursed of carding, and spinning, and housewifery in general. Then there was a dance around the apple-basket, and a dance in which every man kissed every other man's vrow, and in which the Dominie joined, and was as jolly as any of his flock. And they danced to the music of a fiddle, played by Lame George, who lived up in the mountain. Then the Dominie told a number of amusing stories, and the school-master sang them several of his best songs, and cider and ale was drank.

And while the pleasantry was at its highest, a loud knock was heard at the door. The revelry ceased for a moment. There was the postmaster's boy, bearing a letter with several curious stamps on it. Hanz was overjoyed. He shook the boy's hand, and then scanned over the letter. "God pless mine poor poy, Titus!" he exclaimed. "He wrotes dat ledder. Yes, he does; mine poor poy Titus does;" and he struck his hands on his knees, and laughed with joy. "He ton't forgets his old fadder. He be's a goot poy, mine Titus." And he shook hands with the Dominie and the inn-keeper. Indeed, he seemed so completely unmanned that he was powerless to open the letter. Then he took a candle in his right hand, and again scanned and scanned the superscription. "Sumthin' goot in dat ledder. Mine poor poy Titus writes him!" he ejaculated, in a subdued tone.



During all this time, for it seemed long to Angeline, she became pale with anxiety. Then tears gushed into her eyes and moistened her pale cheeks. But they were tears of joy, not sorrow—the wealth of that pure, honest heart now beating so violently in anticipation of the good tidings. When Hanz had somewhat controlled his feelings he sat down in the big chair, and with Angeline looking anxiously over his shoulder and holding the candle, opened and began reading the letter "Yesh, t'is mine poor poy Titus as writes him," he said, pausing for a moment. "Hish name shust as he wrotes him when a poy." The rest of the company looked on and listened in silence. Then he resumed the reading. "Vell, dere wash a pig sthorm, and t' ship most goes down to t' pottom. Den she does'nt go to t' pottom. No, she no goes to t' pottom. Den mine poy, he shaves t' ship." Hanz went over the letter in this incoherent manner, and then handed it to the Dominie to read for the entertainment of the company. The letter was dated at Bahia, where the ship had put in for fresh supplies, as was the custom with whalers. He gave a glowing account of the voyage, and the storm, and the persons he found on board. The good Dominie was several times interrupted by some one of the company invoking a blessing on Tite's head. And when it was announced that he had been made third mate of the ship, an expression of joy broke on every lip. The school-master shook Hanz warmly by the hand, and the inn-keeper declared it would not surprise him if Tite came home captain of the ship.

"High, high!" exclaimed the Dominie, re-adjusting his spectacles; "here's news. An old acquaintance has turned up." Then turning to Critchel, he touched that odd old gentleman on the elbow, saying: "You remember the old grave-digger of thirty years ago, oh, Critchel?"

"Well, very well," replied Critchel; "he was a clever old man, and did his business well. He used to say I brought people into the world, and he sent them out."

"Bless me!" resumed the Dominie; "if here is'nt his son come to life again. The poor fellow! we all knew him well. Tite says here that he has found a good friend in the captain, an old acquaintance of his mother. And who do you think it is?"

Not one in the company could answer, although Angeline blushed, and looked confused. "Price Bottom, son of that clever old man, the grave-digger," concluded the Dominie.

"How strange," said the inn-keeper. "Old Bottom had many a glass of ale at my house, and never troubled anybody, except to dig their graves."

"He was very poor," rejoined Critchel, in a subdued voice, "and died leaving my bill unpaid. But he was an honest man, and paid when he had it."

"The son was a queer young man," resumed the Dominie. "Nobody seemed to care anything about him. And when he left the settlement it was thought he had got into the city and became a worthless. But here he is, made a man of himself and has not forgot his old friends."

This was good news to Angeline and Hanz. Still the name of Price Bottom, the grave-digger's son, revived old if not pleasant memories. The odd old captain had not forgotten his first love. The flame of that love always burns, but never dies out. Disappointment may cross it, may for a time veil its charm, but never can quench it. How strange, Angeline thought, that her darling boy, the consolation of her heart, should have met this once discarded lover, and under such circumstances. And that he should be such a friend and protector to her boy only showed how good a heart he had.

The good news gave an additional charm to the evening's entertainment. One after another shook Hanz and Angeline by the hand, and congratulated them on the happy prospect. Indeed, they seemed the happiest people on earth. Mugs of fresh cider were filled and drank to the health of Captain Price Bottom, of the good ship Pacific—the poor fellow who had only a grave-digger for a father, and left the settlement friendless and without a shilling.

And now these sturdy settlers again took to their pipes, and having smoked in silence for at least five minutes, embraced and kissed their hosts, and parted for the night.



CHAPTER XV.

MRS. CHAPMAN AND THE UPPER CIRCLES.

Let us go back, gentle reader, into the village of Nyack on that same damp, stormy night, and into the house of Bigelow Chapman, the reformer. A very different picture was presented there. The reformer was up stairs, studying plans for the future. His spacious parlor was furnished with a profusion of furniture, of the most approved style, and such as was not common in the country at that day. They have got a new piano, too; and a nice young gentleman in reduced circumstances, a foreigner, is expected up from New York to give their daughter lessons on it. This little affair of the piano and the foreigner has set the whole town to talking, and people are putting on grave faces, and inquiring how they can afford it. But it seems they do afford it, and also to have the best of carpets on their parlor floor. And they have shown a taste for art in several engravings hung on the walls.

The Chapmans expected company from the city that night. A bright coal fire and a globe lamp on the centre-table are shedding a soft, mellow light, and adding an air of comfort and cheerfulness to everything in the room.

Mattie was sitting alone in the parlor reading a letter by the light on the centre-table. Her dress was a plain black silk, made high at the neck, and with an open stomacher, disclosing an aggravating bit of white lace. There was always something neat and becoming in Mattie's dress, and the white ruffles that now encircled her neck and wrists added the charm of simplicity to her appearance. Her hair, too, was almost golden, and hung in long, careless curls down her shoulders.

There was something of deep interest to her in that letter, for she read and re-read it, as her soft, blue eyes, so full of love and tenderness, almost filled with tears. Then she kissed it, and kissed it, and pressed it to her bosom. "Oh, how I wish he was here to-night, that I could tell him how much I love him;" she said, resting her head on her hand thoughtfully. "I would tell him all my thoughts and feelings, just as he has told me his. He is so true to me, and it never shall be said that I am not true to him, poor fellow!" she mused, and putting the letter to her lips again she kissed and kissed it. "They never can get me to love any one else, never!" she resumed, when the door opened and Mrs. Chapman entered, arrayed in her best millinery, and her front hair screwed into the tightest of curls. The good woman had evidently resolved to put on her very best appearance.

"These disappointments are very annoying, my daughter, very," she spoke, advancing and fretting her hand nervously. "If our company does not come then—well, all our dressing will be for nothing. I wanted you so much to see Mr. Gusher, my daughter. He's such a nice young gentleman, so clever and agreeable—and has such a distinguished look, my daughter." Mrs. Chapman expanded herself, while emphasizing the word distinguished. She then filled the great arm-chair with her weighty person. "To get prepared for company, and city company at that, and then have company not come!" she resumed, casting a glance at Mattie, to see if she could discern in her countenance what impression she had made. But Mattie remained silent and thoughtful.

"It's not Mr. Gusher's fault, though. We must charge it all to the storm, I suppose. Then I did want you to see Mr. Gusher so much, my daughter. He is such a nice young man—and has such prospects. And prospects is what a young woman should look to when gentlemen come seriously inclined to matrimony—"

"Mother," said Mattie, interrupting, "I have got such a nice letter. It has made me so happy. I know you would like to read it. You always like to read my letters, you know." And Mattie looked playfully in her mother's face, and handed her the letter. "You will be delighted to hear from him. He says so many kind, good things."

Mrs. Chapman took the letter and scanned over it hastily. "And so it has come to this, has it?" she said, looking admonishingly at Mattie. "A letter from that sailor-boy, the son of them common Dutch people. Your father shall see this. Our daughter has stooped so low as to pledge herself to such a common man!"

"I love you, mother," said Mattie, "and I don't want to be disobedient; but I love him, and I know he loves me. Yes, mother, I love Tite just as much as if he was a rich man's son. I dreamed last night that he came home a rich man, and brought me so many nice things; and that we were married, and were so happy." And she threw her arms around her mother's neck and kissed her so affectionately. "Who knows, mother, but that he may come home rich? But even if he comes home poor, I know he will be good and true to me," she concluded.

"How very sentimental you are, my daughter," rejoined Mrs. Chapman, the little curls about her brow seeming to get tighter as her broad face grew redder. "Sentimental people never prosper, though—never knew one yet that did. Was silly and sentimental once myself. That was before I married your father."

"Oh," rejoined Mattie, playfully, "I am real glad that you remember those things, mother. Was father rich when you were married?"

Mrs. Chapman shook her head, and looked confused for a moment. "He was not rich, my daughter. But then he was so clever—and had such intellectual prospects. Brought up as you have been, my daughter, and with such accomplishments, and such prospects!—to throw yourself away on a sentiment. Just think of it! What would my mother have said if I had gone off and married a man just for sentiment's sake? I brought you up in strict regard to all the proprieties, and now you insist that you won't be a lady."

"Don't fret so, mother," said Mattie, again putting her arms around her mother's neck, and kissing her. "I will be a real good, obedient girl, and do anything you bid me. But then—" Here Mattie paused for a moment, and looked roguishly up into her mother's face.

"But then—what?"

"Well, I don't think we shall agree about Mr. Gusher. The truth is, mother—I don't know why—but then I don't think I ever can love him. But then, you know, mother, I have not seen him yet; and you would'nt have me love a man before I saw him?"

"Perhaps not, my daughter; but I would have you look up, remember your quality, and consider what you may be. If you condescend to look down on that sailor-boy, there's no hope of the family ever moving in the upper circles. But he'll never come back. That ship'll go to the bottom as sure as the world. Something tells me she will go down, and I know she will."

At this Mattie's eyes filled with tears, and she buried her face in her hands and gave vent to her emotions in sobs. "Mother, mother," she rejoined, after a short pause, "how cruel of you to say so, even if you thought so. He was so manly, and so kind to me."

At this Mrs. Chapman rose from her chair with an air of injured dignity, and walked in silence up and down the room for several minutes. Then she heaved a sigh, extended her hand, and resumed: "Your tears, my daughter, are what tear down my pride. No use, I see; my advice is all thrown away—all thrown away! Oh, what a thing it is to have a daughter, and yet not have a daughter. I mean to have a daughter that will have her own way." Again Mrs. Chapman resumed her chair, and became thoughtful and silent.

"You know I love to please you, mother, for you are such a good mother to me in everything else," rejoined Mattie, kneeling beside her mother, placing her arms on her knees, and looking up lovingly in her face. "You know I like to please you, mother," she repeated; "and I won't marry anybody until Tite comes home. But then you must not say anything more to me about Mr. Gusher."

"That's poor consolation—very poor consolation, my daughter," replied Mrs. Chapman, rebukingly. "Exactly what I did'nt want you to promise. Then you have promised yourself to the young man? I'd never have got your father if I'd made such a promise to such a young man. I have always looked forward to the time when we should have a fine house on the Battery, and move in the higher circles."

Chapman now entered the room, which put an end to the conversation between Mattie and her mother. Chapman smiled for once, and was evidently in a pleasant mood. After rubbing his hands and taking a seat by the fire, and looking first at Mattie and then at her mother, he said: "I have good news to tell you. The storm has prevented Gusher from getting here to-night. But the Kidd Discovery Company matter is settled, and will be a great success. No need of inventing a new religion now. Hanz has got his head full of the project. Has made all his Dutch neighbors believe there is a fortune in it for them all. We go on an expedition up the river to-morrow night, in search of the d——l's sounding-rock. That's the place where Kidd buried his treasure, you see. These honest old Dutchmen firmly believe that Kidd had an understanding with the devil when he buried it there. Just show them how to start an enterprise and make money, and they are as ready to make it as anybody."



CHAPTER XVI.

A NIGHT EXPEDITION.

The wind and the cold had moderated, and a heavy grey mist hung over the Tappan Zee on the following night. Hollow, echoing sounds came over and through the mist clouds, and re-echoed up the mountain. The scene was one common at that season of the year; still there was something strange and mysterious in the very atmosphere that composed it. Gloom hung over everything, and touched a melancholy chord in one's feelings. Curious figures, dim and indistinct, seemed to move and dance up and down, and thread their way through the curtain of mist, like phantoms in winding sheets. They were but delusions, betraying the eye. But there is a reality now; a steamer is seen cutting her way through the deep gloom, and throwing a long trail of light high up over the grey mist and reflecting curiously in the heavens.

Two stalworth men were seen walking down the road that night about eight o'clock, dressed in a style common to boatmen. One carried a pair of oars over his shoulder; the other had a well-filled haversack slung across his, and a crowbar in his right hand. They halted on reaching Bright's inn, and having stacked the oars and the bar against the little porch, entered, and were greeted by a number of friends already refreshing themselves at the counter. The appearance of these men—for they were known to be the best boatmen on the Tappan Zee—greatly surprised Bright and the gossips who were enjoying his ale around a little table. One and then another invited them to drink, but they refused, saying they had merely dropped in to light their pipes and look for the men who were to join them. Various questions were now put to them concerning their mission and its object. But the boatmen affected a mysterious air; and all that could be got from them was that when they returned it would be with money enough to buy all Nyack. They seemed somewhat disappointed at not meeting some one, whose name they would not disclose, at the inn.

Bright now mixed warm punches and set them before the boatmen, saying that on such a night they were just what were needed to prop a man's courage up. The men, however, steadily refused all invitations to drink, and when they had lighted their pipes, and bid the host and his customers good night, left the inn and proceeded to a landing at the bank of the river, where a boat with two men in it was waiting them.

The manners of the boatmen had so excited the curiosity of the inn-keeper and his guests, that no sooner had they left the inn than Bright and several others put on their hats and followed, resolved to see for themselves what was going on. Imagine, then, what must have been their surprise to find the men in the boat Bigelow Chapman and Hanz Toodleburg—both with heavy overcoats on. The boatmen were welcomed by the men in the boat, whose voices were plainly heard, and after exchanging a few words they threw in their oars carelessly and followed themselves. In another minute the little craft was heading up the stream, and disappeared in the thick mist.

"I have it all!" said Bright, turning to his companions with an assuring nod of the head, and lowering his voice. "Toodleburg—Chapman—a Dutchman and a Yankee—pick-axes, crowbars, and big ropes. Put them all together; add going off at night to it—dark and misty night at that—and there's something we'll all hear from in the wind. If Hanz and that quarrelsome Yankee have got their heads together, then the devil will get cheated out of Kidd's money. Sarves him right, too. Now them two is after Kidd's money. Always knew old Hanz could tell where it was."

The inn-keeper and his friends now returned to the inn and discussed the matter over warm punch until nearly midnight, or until their wits became so confused that the four men in the boat increased to forty. In short, Nyack waked up on the following morning to find herself filled with the wildest reports concerning this midnight expedition and its object.

The little boat moved on steadily up the stream, her sturdy oarsmen pulling at a measured stroke through the bewildering fog. In this way the boat was kept on up the river until past midnight, a glimpse of the land being caught here and there, an assurance to Hanz that they were not far out at sea. Indeed, Hanz began to get somewhat uneasy, and to wish himself back with Angeline in the little house. As this expedition, however, was to establish a solid basis for the great Kidd Discovery Company, out of which a fortune for Tite was to come, he was willing to run the risk of being lost in the fog for a night or two.

Towards morning the men became uneasy and hungry, and began cursing Kidd and all connected with him, and enquired of Chapman if he knew where he was going. Indeed, one of them declared it his belief that they had been brought on a fool's errand. Chapman, however, assured them that he knew exactly where Kidd had buried his treasure—that it was on a point not many miles below the Highlands, and under a big rock called the d——l's sounding stone. That if they kept on they would reach the place before daybreak. Hanz assured the men that every word Chapman said concerning Kidd was true, and this inspired their confidence, for they honestly believed his father to be an intimate friend of the pirate, and of course ought to know all about his money.

The boatmen now rested their oars and proceeded to refresh themselves. And while they were doing this, and wondering what this night expedition really meant, Hanz smoked his pipe and nursed his courage. In his heart, however, he wished himself out of the affair and in a more honest occupation. As for Chapman, he told a number of stories tended to excite the cupidity of the boatmen. After resting an hour or two the party proceeded about five miles further up the river, and landed just at daybreak on a point jutting into the west side of the river, and just above which there was a dilapidated little cabin, inhabited by a laboring man and his wife.

It would not do to disturb these poor people at so early an hour, Chapman said, nor to tell them what sort of a mission we were on. Thereupon Hanz and he proceeded up the bank of the river, to make, as he said, a discovery. So the boatmen were left to take care of themselves. The boatmen waited for nearly two hours, still neither Chapman nor Hanz returned. Where they had gone was fast becoming a mystery. The men at length became alarmed and disappointed, and proceeded towards the little house to enquire the name of the place, and see what they could do to get breakfast. Before they reached the house, however, the door opened and two half-naked, tow-headed urchins came toddling out, and as soon as they saw the strangers scampered back in a state of great alarm. A lusty dame, ragged and shoeless, and with her hair hanging loose about her neck, now came to the door, with a broom in one hand and a frying-pan in the other.

"Where on arth are you two come from?" enquired the woman, in a surly tone, as she raised her broom. "Another lot o' fools com'd to look for Mr. Kidd's money," she continued, without waiting for a reply. "Seems as if all the folks atween this and Yonkers had got crazy about Mr. Kidd, and was a comin' up here to dig for his money."

The men confessed that she was right in regard to their mission, and begged that she would get them some breakfast, for which they would pay her liberally.

"Yes!" rejoined the woman, angrily, "I know'd what you'd cum fur. Thar ain't nothin' in this house to get breakfast on—nothin' fur my poor old man and the two little children. Work's hard to get up here. And them fools what comes up here to dig for Mr. Kidd's money eat up what little we had, and did'nt pay fur it, nither. Go home, like honest men, and get some honester work than comin' up here thinkin' you kin find Mr. Kidd's money. Don't believe in Mr. Kidd—I don't!" The woman kept swinging her broom as she spoke. Then the two children ventured back and peered from behind her skirts at the strangers. "Don't believe he had any money, anyhow. If he had he was a mighty fool to come up here and bury it. People round here would 'a stole every dollar on it long ago. There's a Yankee and a Dutchman diggin' a big hole a piece above here—expectin' to find Mr. Kidd's money."

Such was the reception these boatmen met with at the hands of Mrs. Brophy, whose husband, a short, thick-shouldered, bullet-headed son of the Emerald Isle, with a short, black pipe in his wide mouth, and in his shirt and trousers, came to the door and seated himself on the sill.

"Is it Misther Kidd's money ye's is afther?" he enquired, querulously, putting his elbows on his knees and resting his head in his hands. "Much luck may ye's have finding it. Divel a cint meself iver saw uv Misther Kidd's money, an' we've liv'd here this two years an' more. It's mighty little uv any other man's money—not enough, troth, to get bread for the childher—have we seen."

The boatmen enquired of Mr. Brophy if he could tell them where the devil's sounding-stone was. There was indeed a superstition amongst these poor people that Kidd had buried his money under a rock he gave that name to; and that there was an agreement with his satanic majesty, who was to stand guard over it, and allow only those who had the talisman to lay hands on it. This talisman, it was also believed, would open the devil's conscience, and cause him to lift the stone and unlock the great iron chest containing the gold and silver. Loud noises, it was said, were heard under the stone, which was the voice of the devil rebuking the follies of the men who came in search of this treasure. These poor people also believed that Kidd had murdered a woman in cold blood, and buried her under the same stone; that she would come to life when it was lifted; and that her ghost haunted the spot every night, and not less than a score of Dutchmen had seen it. The more religious of them declared that the ghost would hold communion only with a certain priest, who came once a year, at midnight, to invoke in an unknown tongue a blessing on her troubled spirit.

"The divel's soundin'-stone is it ye's wants?" ejaculated Mr. Brophy. "Shure, it's beyant—a mile, about—perhaps two—perhaps not so many—perhaps more. Much good may it do ye's when ye's finds it. An', an', an', the ghost standin' there ivery night." Mr. Brophy resumed his pipe, and after two or three whiffs resumed: "Ye's may dig holes till yer childhers wears rags, as mine does, an' not a mouthfull uv bread in the house, an' not a cint of Misther Kidd's money ye'd git. An' the ghost standin' there, too!"

Being satisfied that these poor people had nothing to give them to eat, the boatmen presented the woman with two dollars and what liquor there was in their flask, telling her to spend the money in bread for the children. This little act of kindness so softened the poor woman's feelings that she invoked numerous blessings on their heads; adding at the same time that it was more money than she had seen for a month, though persons in search of Kidd's gold and silver had beset her house.

The men now returned to their boat, and breakfasted on what they had in their haversack. And when it was nearly noon, and they were beginning to get alarmed, Chapman returned, apparently in the best of spirits, and accompanied them to a comfortable farm-house, about a mile up the bank. Here they found Hanz, very contentedly smoking his pipe, in the company of two others, who at first affected to be strangers. It soon became apparent, however, that these men had met Hanz and Chapman here by appointment. And it was also apparent that they were engaged in the same business of searching for Kidd's treasure. One was an ill-favored, talkative little man, who wore spectacles and the shabbiest of clothing, and seemed to pride himself in a bushy red beard and hair. In short, he was about as dilapidated a specimen of rejected humanity as Nature in one of her wildest freaks could have produced. Indeed, I may as well inform the reader that this person was Warren Holbrook, who, since his departure from Nyack, had been enlightening the people of this neighborhood by preaching the gospel of the "great advanced ideas," and in that way picking up enough to keep the wolf from the door, though it would not put clothes on his back.

Holbrook declared that the world had not used him well generally; but he never thought of looking into himself for the cause. He was willing, however, to relinquish the gospel of the advanced ideas for a business that would put money in his pocket and clothes on his back. Here he was, then, engaged in the business of getting up the great Kidd Discovery Company, by which every man who invested in it was to make a fortune.

The other was a slender, well-formed young man, perhaps twenty-five or six years old, of dark olive complexion, and black, oily hair that curled all over his head. His large black eyes were full of softness and were well set under beautifully arched-brows. There was, indeed, a moorish cast about his features, which were prominent and well lined; and when he spoke, which he did with a foreign accentation, he disclosed a row of white, polished teeth, every one set with perfect regularity. His hands, too, were soft and delicate, and on each of his little fingers he wore a large seal ring. He wore, also, a heavy gold neck-chain, and his dress was of plain black, made in the latest style and in great good taste. Romantic young girls just out in society might have been excused for selecting just such a man as a model lover.

The young man I have described above so neatly dressed, was Philo Gusher, of the great accommodating house of Topman and Gusher, extensively engaged in making discoveries and fortunes for all persons kind enough to honor them with their investments.

The boatmen found these men in a room at the farm-house, seated around a table on which stood a bucket half filled with what appeared to be ugly black sand. Just as they entered Mr. Gusher rose from his seat and exclaimed:

"Greatest discovery what was ever made. There is nothing like it in history. I tell you it is a great thing, gen-tle-men!" Here he raised his right hand, and then lowering it ran his fingers into the dark sand, and drew out a number of discolored Mexican and Spanish dollars. "Wis zat—what is in zat bucket, gen-tle-mens—and ze ouse of Topman and Gusher (me) is on a solid basis, as you shall see." Here he rang a dozen or two of the discolored dollars on the table, adding, "Zis Kidd Discovery Company is one zing so great as you ever did see, gen-tle-men."

"And we are indebted to this good, honest old man for all of it—I should say," rejoined Chapman, checking himself, "for selling us the secret." Hanz had been smoking his pipe quietly, and seeming to take but little interest in what was going on. Chapman now slapped him on the shoulder violently, and shook his hand. "We are indebted to you for this great and successful enterprise, eh? See the fortune now, don't you?"

"Perhaps I toes, und maybe I ton't," replied Hanz, relieving his mouth of the pipe. "I shees t' shand, und I shees t' tirty tollars—how I know where he comes from, eh?" Hanz began to have his suspicion aroused, and to feel that he had got into queer company. "T' tollar might get back to t' tivel when you gets him, if I vas only back mit mine Angeline!" said he, shaking his head doubtingly.

"It is very generous of our friend here," interposed Holbrook, running his fingers through his tufty red hair, and looking askance through his spectacles at Hanz, "to affect that he cares nothing about our discovery. Very kind of him. But we found the treasure exactly where he said it was buried."

Hanz shook his head, and looked with an air of surprise at the speaker. "If I tells you where dat gold und dat tirty shilver be's buried, und you goes dar und finds him, ten I be's asleep, und ton't know what I tells you."

"Te gen-tle-man," interposed Gusher, going off into a rhapsody of delight, "is very modest. It is very good of him to be so modest. But he, I am sure, will accept ze thanks of Topman and Gusher. Tis Kidd, gen-tle-men—he must be one jolly, generous fellow. I loves tis gen-tle-man Kidd. He bury his dollars here in bushel baskets full. We find him, eh?" Here he again ran his hand into the sand, and drawing out several more discolored dollars threw them on the table. "Te great big Kidd Discovery Company is one great fixed fact—one grand success, gen-tle-men. When ze customer come wiz his money, we shall say here is ze zing what makes you one grand fortune; invest your money and put your trust in Topman and Gusher."

Here, indeed, was the capital stock on which the enterprising firm of Topman and Gusher had started a great and flourishing joint-stock company. The boatmen listened to what they had heard with surprise and astonishment. They, in short, firmly believed that what they had seen in the bucket was treasure taken from the place in which it had been buried by Kidd.



CHAPTER XVII.

MR. GUSHER IS INTRODUCED TO MATTIE.

The Reverend Warren Holbrook was left in the farm-house to further develop the discovery, and lift the great enterprise into popularity among the confiding people in that portion of the country. The rest of the party, including Gusher, returned to the boat near sundown and set off for Nyack, the sturdy oarsmen singing a merry song. There in the bottom of the boat was the bucket containing the black sand and discolored dollars—the capital stock of the great Kidd Discovery Company—which Chapman and Gusher affected to guard with particular care.

They reached Nyack the next day about noon, looking fatigued and careworn, for they had enjoyed but little sleep since leaving. During their absence all sorts of wild rumors had been circulated concerning the object of the expedition. Imagination had made some of its highest flights, and even found a relative of Kidd, who was to join the expedition a few miles up the river, and who possessed the power to make the devil surrender sounding-rock—in case he proved obstinate and refused to acknowledge Hanz's authority. Titus Bright's inn was the place where all the wisdom of the settlement concentrated of a night. And it was here that all the various features of the great expedition were discussed over ale and cider. Sundry honest Dutchmen shook their heads suspiciously, and declared no good would come of it if Chapman got his finger in. Others said it was all clear enough now where Hanz Toodleburg got his dollars and his doubloons. It was no wonder that he was so much better off than his neighbors. Another declared that he had more than once told Hanz he would never get to heaven, and that secret on his mind.

When the boat reached the landing a number of persons were gathered there, all anxious to know what success had attended the expedition, and what discoveries had been made concerning Kidd's money. News that the expedition had returned soon spread over Nyack, and the town was greatly agitated. The arrival of Gusher, a gentleman of such distinguished personal appearance, tended still further to increase the agitation, and to give wing to wilder rumors. Hanz was received with salutations of welcome, for every one seemed glad to see him back. But where this foreign-looking gentleman came from, and what was his history, were questions they confounded their wits over without finding a satisfactory solution.

Considerable ado was now made in getting the bucket and its contents on shore, which was done with as much care and ceremony as if every grain of black sand it contained had been gold. And when a number of the coins had been exhibited to the bystanders, and the genuineness of the metal they were made of shown to be beyond doubt, the boatmen ran a pole through the handle and carried it on their shoulders up the road, creating such a sensation in turn that they were followed by a curious and astonished crowd, which seemed to increase at every step.