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Updated: May 9, 2025
Why, Tom why, Tom Chist! if we've read this aright, thy fortune is made." Tom Chist stood staring straight at the old gentleman's excited face, and seeing nothing but it in all the bright infinity of sunshine. Were they, indeed, about to find the treasure chest?
They were so busy lifting the chest from the boat that at first they did not observe that Tom Chist had come up and was standing there. It was the white man with the long, plaited queue and the gold earrings that spoke to him. "Boy, what do you want here, boy?" he said, in a rough, hoarse voice. "Where d'ye come from?"
The suspicious thing is, that them letters an' the ones on the poke found in the chist are jist the same." "Very strange," remarked Mr. Radhurst. "Do you remember the letters?" "Yes, there were jist two, 'K. R." At these words, Constance started and rose to her feet. Trembling violently, she approached the miner. Once she put out her hand as if for support.
Then Tom Chist told his story, panting, hurrying, tumbling one word over another in his haste, and Parson Jones listened, breaking every now and then into an ejaculation of wonder. The light in his pipe went out and the bowl turned cold. "And I don't see why they should have killed the poor black man," said Tom, as he finished his narrative.
And he pointed to the oaken stick with its red tip blazing against the white shimmer of sand behind it. "And the 40 and 72 and 91," cried the old gentleman, in a voice equally shrill "why, that must mean the number of steps the pirate was counting when you heard him." "To be sure that's what they mean!" cried Tom Chist. "That is it, and it can be nothing else.
Then old Matt would chase them out of doors and around and around the house for maybe half an hour, until his anger was cool, when he would go back again, and for a time the storm would be over. Besides his foster mother, Tom Chist had a very good friend in Parson Jones, who used to come over every now and then to Abrahamson's hut upon the chance of getting a half dozen fish for breakfast.
She was 'shamed to look so shif'less that day, but she had some good clothes in a chist in the bedroom, and a boughten bonnet with a good cypress veil, which she had when "he" died. She calculated they would do, though they might be old-fashioned, some. She seemed greatly pleased at Mr. Lorimer's having taken the trouble to come to see her.
So my normal occupations often were interrupted by such calls as these: "John's Lize Ann she ain't much; cain't you-uns give her some easin'-powder for that hurtin' in her chist?" "Old Uncle Bobby Tuttle's got a pone come up on his side; looks like he mought drap off, him bein' weak and right narvish and sick with a head-swimmin'."
I knowed better 'n he did dat time. Dat night I had a division, an' de dream say, 'Put on yer purple mournin'-dress an' set wid yer feet in a barrel ob b'ilin' water till de smoke comes down de chimbly. An' so I done, a-settin' up dere on dat chist o' drawers all night, wid my purple mournin'-dress on an' my feet in de b'ilin' water, an' de lizards run away so fur dat dey ain't even stopped yit."
"Stop! stop!" he cried out at last, in the midst of something Tom was saying. "Stop! stop! Tell me; do you know the name of the vessel that was wrecked, and from which you were washed ashore?" "I've heard it said," said Tom Chist, "'twas the Bristol Merchant." "I knew it! I knew it!" exclaimed the great man, in a loud voice, flinging his hands up into the air.
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