arm-chairs, with a good cigar, a whisky-and-soda, or a glass of that old
port on which he prides himself, and that is all that is necessary.
Where is the need of words?

And occasionally, we have, as third in those evening conclaves, a big
slow-smiling, broad-faced young merchant, of the same kidney. In he
drops with a nod and a smile, selects his cigar and his glass, and takes
his place in the smoke-cloud of our meditations, radiating, without the
effort of speech, that good thing--humanity; though one must not forget
the one subject on which now and again the good Charlie Webster achieves
eloquence in spite of himself--duck-shooting. That is the only subject
worth breaking the pleasant brotherhood of silence for.

John Saunders's subject is shark-fishing. Duck-shooting and
shark-fishing. It is enough. Here, for sensible men, is a sufficient
basis for life-long friendship, and unwearying, inexhaustible
companionship.

It was in this peace of John Saunders's snuggery, one July evening, in
1903, the three of us being duly met, and ensconced in our respective
arm-chairs, that we got on to the subject of buried treasure. We had
talked more than usual that evening--talked duck and shark till those
inexhaustible themes seemed momentarily exhausted. Then it was I who
started us off again by asking John what he knew about buried treasure.

At this, John laughed his funny little quiet laugh, his eyes twinkling
out of his wrinkles, for all the world like mischievous mice looking out
of a cupboard, took a sip of his port, a pull at his cigar, and then:

"Buried treasure!" he said, "well, I have little doubt that the islands