story; like a tale that is told. It gave a sharp zest to life, this thing. To go hunting for buried treasure, and to find that, somewhere, there is treasure really buried! His blood had not so raced through his veins since the first time he had raptly read through the pages of Stevenson’s epic of buried treasure and villainy and bloodcurdling adventure.
“So there really is something in it, Eddie,” he exclaimed.
“It seems so, sir,” answered Eddie. “Where is this here Mount Monroe, anyway?”
“I guess Miss Pomeroy’ll know. Secret caves on mountains! It was almost too good to be true. And he had uncovered it himself—that would weigh with Jessica, he considered. Perhaps . . .
He allowed himself to sink away into a reverie about the girl with hidden lights in the coils of her hair. There was that dream he had had about a wedding. . . . Now, it was not impossible for such a dredm to come true. Men have married women before . . . he considered. . . . Not such women as Jessica, of course, but it was possible that to them the women had seemed just as wonderful. That was absurd, of course . . . as if any woman could be as wonderful as Jessica; yet men were foolish, and they had their dreams.
“To-morrow morning, Eddie,” he said, “we start out early—at daybreak. We’ll get Miss Pomeroy to go with us—the note says she knows where the cave is—and we’ll have the loot before old boy Iggy is out of bed. Then back to New York—maybe.”
“Yes, sir,” said Eddie. “After breakfast, sir,” he supplied.
Val laughed. “This is no time to think of food, Eddie. Haven’t you any soul for romance?”
