Chapter XXIII: Footsteps

“Here’s some salt, if you want any,” said Brent.

“We have plenty,” Tom answered. “Where did you get that, anyway?”

“It was under that old chest.”

“Let’s see it.”

There was no table to dine at, and they ate sitting in two old chairs close to the stove, so that they might refill their tin dishes without getting up. The warmth of the fire was grateful too, for the wind was blowing up outside and the one little window rattled and admitted volleys of air from time to time as the fitful gusts assailed that side of the cabin. They kept enough fire now to diffuse a comforting warmth and to keep the supper hot.

“Do you know,” said Tom, examining the box of salt, “that’s a bait-box. I bet that’s just the kind of a box John Mink used to hide away the money. See, there’s a place for fish-hooks.”

“I hope we didn’t eat any by mistake,” said Brent; “I never cared for those.”

“It helps to prove a connection,” said Tom. “I mean, that old fellow out there spoke of a bait-box and now we find a bait-box here.”

“Did he speak of a bait-box?” Brent asked.

“You know blamed well he did. Listen,” said Tom, resorting to his wallet.

“You’re not going to read the whole thing?”

“No, but listen to this:

“The man’s history and antecedents were not known to the
authorities and he came to be known as Treasure Jack because
he was forever making vague references to a bait-box full of
money which he had once put in the ground. He was harmless
and amiable and able to work with his hands at making
baskets in the institution.”

“Well, it proves one thing, anyway,” said Brent, glancing at the metal box sideways over his spectacles and not troubling himself to take it from Tom. “I don’t believe a box of that size could be hidden behind the masonry in that well--them’s my sentiments. If old Mink put it there he must have been in a hurry----”

“Maybe not.”

“Well, anyway, you’d have to take out a couple of stones to fit a box of that size in, and then you couldn’t get the stones back. I’m so innocent I didn’t know how big a bait-box was. I thought maybe you wear them around your neck like a locket.”

“Yes, you didn’t!”

“Well,” said Brent, “at least one thing is proved. The box is not in that well. If that’s a bait-box, and if other bait-boxes are like it, why, then, the money is not in that well. I think I can say I know that well as well as anybody; I lived in it several centuries.”

“Well, if that’s the case,” said Tom, somewhat impressed, “then, where is it?”

“Are you asking me?”

“There’s nothing for us to do,” said Tom, “but wait around and see if that John Mink doesn’t come back here.”

“I’m enjoying my vacation,” said Brent.

Tom seemed nettled. “Yes, but it must be _somewhere_,” he said. “I’m going to clear out the gully all the way to Conner’s and search it thoroughly.”

“Look out for snakes; remember they have the right of way. Have another sliver of bacon?”

“The trouble with you,” said Tom, “is you’re a Philistine.”

“No, I’m not a Philippine,” said Brent. “If you want to know honestly what I think, I don’t think we stand much chance of finding that money--hold on now, I’m not a Philippine----”

“Philistine, I said,” Tom shot at him.

“I believe the money is somewhere around here.”

“Thanks,” said Tom.

“Not at all,” said Brent. “And I think it’s likely that old geezer out west is the one who left it here.”

“Now you’re talking.”

“And you’re listening--that’s fine,” said Brent. “Have another sliver of bacon--no?”

“Go on,” said Tom.

“All right, my father was a doctor and I’ve heard him say that people who go daffy from a fall and get magnesia----”

“Amnesia,” Tom shouted.

“Pardon me, my error. I’ve heard him say that such people are sometimes cured by an operation after years. All right, then, I don’t see any reason why he shouldn’t come back here and get his money, if he remembers now where he put it. If he comes it will be mighty interesting to see him and help him. If he doesn’t come, we’re having a mighty good vacation, anyway. I’m here as a scientific observer. I don’t care anything about hunting for treasure; I had my little fling to-day and I’m _through_. If Captain Kidd’s ghost came and told me where his pirate gold was, I’d say, ‘Nothing doing, go dig in the sand yourself.’

“But I’d just kind of like to see if that old codger does come back here, like an old dog that can’t forget a place. If that old fellow _is_ Mink Havers, I’d like to see him and give him a hand--and, as you say, see that the kid gets her share. But if it’s just a case of digging, I’d rather take my little pail and shovel and go down to Coney Island. So much for that. If you want to vacuum clean the Gulch go ahead and do it.

“What’s interesting me just at present are two things to wit, wiz. I’d like to know who was wandering around up at the top of the well to-night, before you came. And I’d like to know--Potato? No?--I’d like to know who it was that ran away from the Ford. If he really intended to steal your Ford, that would prove conclusively that he was John Mink, alias Treasure Jack. Because anybody who would want to steal your Ford must be plumb crazy; I don’t know if you’d call it magnesia or amnesia or what.”

“It was a young man,” said Tom; “he ran like an athlete.”

“He had gray hair?”

“Yes, but lots of young men have that; fellows that think a lot----”

“I think a great deal,” said Brent. “I’m always buried in thought when I’m not buried in a well. And my hair is wavy brown.”

“That fellow wasn’t Mink,” laughed Tom.

“And the other--the sound up above the well?”

“I think you imagined that,” said Tom; “the wind was blowing the bushes, though maybe at that---- _Listen!_”

They both paused, speechless. There was the sound of footsteps approaching the door.