replied the considerate Leopold. "But we have two boats
here, and we can't both return in the Rosabel."

"Can't we tow the old boat?"

"We can, but I don't like to do it, for the old boat will be sure to
bump against the Rosabel, and scrape the paint off. Now, Stumpy, if you
will take the new boat, and sail back in her, I will follow you in the
old tub. You will get to the house long before I do, and you can tell
the folks I am right side up."

"Why don't you go in the Rosabel, and tell them yourself?" suggested
Stumpy.

Just at this point Leopold was bothered. If Stumpy reached the hotel
first, he would tell Mr. Bennington where he had found his son, on the
beach under High Rock, with a lantern and shovel in his hand. Of course
his father would wish to know what he was doing there; and under present
circumstances this would be a hard question, for Leopold was deeply
indoctrinated with the "little hatchet" principle. In a word, he could
not tell a deliberate lie. He could not place himself in a situation
where a falsehood would be necessary to extricate himself from a
dilemma. Unhappily, like thousands of other scrupulous people, he could
"strain at a gnat, and swallow a camel;" for it was just as much a lie
to deceive his father by his silence as it was by his speech.

But, after all Leopold's motive was good. He was afraid his father would
use the hidden treasure to relieve his embarrassments in money matters,
and he was not willing to subject him to this temptation. The young man
was still firm in his faith that the money belonged to somebody, and
just as firm in the belief that it was his duty to seek out the owner
thereof, which he had not yet done, or had time to do.

He had thought a great deal about the ownership of the treasure; and,
arguing the question as he might to himself, he always reached the same
conclusion--that the money did not belong to him, and that it did belong
to somebody else. He had considered the possibility of finding the
proprietor of the twelve hundred dollars in gold through the owners of
the Waldo, and the consignees or agents of the brig in Havana. This was
before he found the old shot-bag; and, now that he had held it in his
hand, this conclusion was even more forcible than before. Satisfied that
the secret would be safer in the possession of Stumpy than of his
father, he was tempted to tell him the whole story.

"After all, I guess we will go back in the Rosabel, Stumpy," added