been buried. Who knows but that he,
too, was bent on treasure-seeking? Be that as it may, the little
brig found her way into the bay on the northeast side of the
island, where she anchored. Water was needed, and there is
refreshment in tropic fruits after a diet of salt horse and
hardtack. So all hands had a holiday ashore, where the captain did
not disdain to join them. Only he went apart, and had other
occupation than swarming up the palms for cocoanuts.

One fancies, then, a moonless night, a crew sleeping off double
grog, generously allowed them by the captain; a boat putting off
from the _Bonny Lass_, in which were captain, mate, and one Bill
Halliwell, able seaman, a man of mighty muscle; and as freight an
object large, angular and ponderous, so that the boat lagged
heavily beneath the rowers' strokes.

Later, Bill, the simple seaman, grows presumptuous on the strength
of this excursion with his betters. It is a word and a blow with
the captain of the _Bonny Lass_, and Bill is conveniently disposed
of. Dead, as well as living, he serves the purpose of the captain,
but of that later.

Away sailed the _Bonny Lass_, sailing once for all out of the
story. As for Captain Sampson, there is a long gap in his history,
hazily filled by the story of his having been lieutenant to Benito
Bonito, and one of the two survivors when Bonito's black flag was
brought down by the British frigate _Espiegle_. But sober history
knows nothing of him until he reappears years later, an aged and
broken man, in a back street of Bristol. Here was living a certain
Hopperdown, who had been boatswain on the _Bonny Lass_ at the time
that she so regrettably lost her passengers overboard. He too had
been at Leeward Island, and may have somewhat wondered and
questioned as to the happenings during the brig's brief stay there.
He saw and recognized his old skipper hobbling along the Bristol
quays, and perhaps from pity took the shabby creature home with
him. Hopperdown dealt in sailors' slops, and had a snug room or
two behind the shop. Here for a while the former Captain Sampson
dwelt, and after a swift illness here he died. With the hand of
death upon him, his grim lips at last gave up their secret. With
stiffening fingers he traced a rough map, to refresh Hopperdown's
memory after the lapse of time since either had seen the
wave-beaten cliffs of Leeward Island. For Captain Sampson had
never been able to return to claim the trea