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"'He gave his name as J. Wallbridge, Leopold read from the diary; 'but that was not the name I found on the paper in his state-room, when I made up his bed on the day we sailed from Havana, though the initials were the same. Then he lent me his Bible to read one day, and this other name was written on it in forty places, wherever there was any blank paper.
Oh, why ain't I a chance to get into this?" I heard a confused roar, above which rose the fierce tones of Doddridge Knapp. "How many shares has he got to-day?" I asked. "Not forty yet." "And the others?" "There's been about two thousand sold." I gripped the rail in nervous tension. The battle seemed to be going against the King of the Street. "Oh!" gasped Wallbridge, trembling with excitement.
"You couldn't pick Omega off the bushes this afternoon, Mr. Wilton," said Wallbridge, wiping his bald head vigorously. "There's fools at all times, and some of 'em were here and ready to drop what they had; but not many. I gathered in six hundred for you, but I had to fight for it." I thanked the merry broker, and gave him a check for his balance.
By the death of every person on board of the brig except Harvey Barth, the knowledge of the acts of Wallbridge was necessarily confined to him. If the money had ever been buried on the beach, Leopold was confident it was there now. No one could have removed it, for no one could have suspected its existence.
The brig had evidently shifted her cargo in the hold, for she had heeled over until the water was a foot deep in the lee scuppers. "It will be all over with the Waldo in two minutes more," said Wallbridge, in a loud voice, which was necessary in order to make himself heard above the roar of the tempest. "I don't know this part of the bay very well," replied Mr. Carboy in the same loud tone.
"I think so myself; and I purpose to act on precisely the principle you suggest. Mr. Wallbridge, to whom the money belonged, has gone to the happy hunting-ground, where I don't want to trouble him to hunt for this bag of gold. For aught I know, Mr.
One afternoon he strolled into the old church-yard to search out the grave of Elizabeth Wallbridge, the sweet heroine of Leigh Richmond's beautiful religious story, "The Dairyman's Daughter." He found seated beside the mound a lady and a young girl, the latter reading aloud, in a full, melodious voice, the touching tale of the Christian maiden.
Harvey had finished writing in his diary when the passenger interrupted him; but, apparently to change the current of his thoughts, he took the book from the box, and began to read what he had written. "I don't know what his name is, but I don't believe it's Wallbridge," said he, to himself, as the last page recalled the reflections which had caused him to make some of the entries in the book.
"Can I do anything, Captain 'Siah?" asked Wallbridge, who had been aroused from his lethargy by the energy of the captain. "Yes; let go the peak-halyards of the spanker!" answered the captain, sharply, as he sprang to the throat-halyards himself.
"Miss Liverage told me the hole which Wallbridge dug was not more than a foot deep; and Harvey Barth's diary contained the same statement," said the boatman to himself. "I dug a foot down, and the money was not there. I remember I found a piece of boat-hook, with the iron on it about that distance below the surface. What does that prove?
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