the bags again and put them all back into the chest.

They reburied the chest in the place whence they had taken it, and then
the Parson folded the precious paper of directions, placed it carefully
in his wallet, and his wallet in his pocket.

"Tom," he said, for the twentieth time, "your fortune has been made
this day."

And Tom Chist, as he rattled in his breeches pocket the half-dozen
doubloons he had kept out of his treasure, felt that what his friend
had said was true.

* * * * *

As the two went back homeward across the level space of sand, Tom Chist
suddenly stopped stock still and stood looking about him. "'Twas just
here," he said, digging his heel down into the sand, "that they killed
the poor black man."

"And here he lies buried for all time," said Parson Jones; and as he
spoke he dug his cane down into the sand. Tom Chist shuddered. He would
not have been surprised if the ferrule of the cane had struck something
soft beneath that level surface. But it did not, nor was any sign of
that tragedy ever seen again. For, whether the pirates had carried away
what they had done and buried it elsewhere, or whether the storm in
blowing the sand had completely levelled off and hidden all sign of
that tragedy where it was enacted, certain it is that it never came to
sight again--at least so far as Tom Chist and the Reverend Hillary
Jones ever knew.