By the time Jack and Hal had painfully assumed sitting positions the arrival had beached his dory and was stepping ashore.

“Who is it?” asked Hal.

Jack shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe a clammer. Which way did he come, Bee?”

“Search me. I only saw him when he was shoving his boat onto the sand. What’s a clammer?”

“A man who digs clams,” laughed Jack. “I guess he’s coming up to look us over.”

The man had pulled up his dory—a rather disreputable looking craft sadly in need of paint—just inside the mouth of the river and was slowly climbing the slope. When he reached the place where the boys had been digging he stopped and examined the excavations for fully a minute. Then he came on and the campers had their first good look at him.

“My word!” ejaculated Hal sotto voce. “Isn’t he a fine old cutthroat!”

Which uncomplimentary description seemed very appropriate to the rest. The man was short, stocky and wide of shoulder. A pair of rusty black trousers, a faded blue pea-jacket and a cheap gingham shirt comprised the bulk of his attire. But it was the countenance that had prompted Hal’s simile. The face was wrinkled and seamed and of the hue of leather, and a straggling brown beard covered the lower half of it. The nose was hooked and crooked and a pair of light colored eyes, which might have been gray or green, gleamed brightly at the group by the tent. The eyebrows were heavy and came together over the nose. On his head was an old felt hat, the front brim pulled down. A ragged mustache met the beard and hid the mouth, but the man seemed to be smiling as he greeted the boys.

“Howdy do, mates,” he said in a gruff voice that seemed to come from his scuffed boots. “Fine weather we’re having.”

“You can’t beat it,” replied Hal flippantly.

The stranger paused in front of the group and thrust his big, gnarled hands into the pockets of his jacket. The boys were gazing fascinatedly now at the man’s right eye which, no matter how its companion roamed, remained fixed upon them with a baleful gleam.

“Campin’ out, I see,” said the man. “Havin’ a fine time, too, I bet ye.”

“Great,” agreed Hal. “Anything we can do for you?”

“Thank ye, my boy. I might take a bit to eat if it’s right handy. Not wishin’ to put ye to no trouble, however.”

“That’s all right,” said Jack. “We haven’t anything cooked, though. Maybe there’s some tea left, and we’ve got plenty of bread and butter.”

“The butter’s not very good,” warned Hal.

“I ain’t partic’lar,” was the response. The left eye followed Jack as he disappeared into the tent, while the right eye continued to regard Hal and Bee unblinkingly. Jack returned with several big slabs of bread and a generous square of butter. The teapot proved good for another cup of tea and soon the stranger, seated on an inverted bucket, was lunching. He ate slowly, consuming the bread in huge bites and washing it down with draughts of the luke-warm tea. If he was really as hungry as he had led them to suppose he disguised the fact well. “I cal’ate you’re going to build,” he observed between mouthfuls of the bread and butter.

“Build?” echoed Jack. “No, I guess not.”

“Oh? Well, I see you’d been a-diggin’ of a hole down there.”

“Yes,” replied Hal, who had taken a violent dislike to the visitor, “we were digging for clams.”

Both eyes turned toward Hal and the ends of the ragged mustache quivered in what was apparently a smile. “Fond of a joke, you be, ain’t ye?” he inquired with a rumble that might have been a laugh.

“Yes, I be,” answered Hal, in spite of a warning look from Jack. “Be n’t you?”

“Oh, yes, son, oh, yes!” rumbled the man. “I be mighty fond of a good joke—on t’other fellow! I cal’ate what you’re diggin’ for is yellow clams, eh?”

“Yellow clams?” repeated Jack questioningly.

The left eye closed in a portentous wink. “Aye, gold clams, mate. Ho, they all try it. Man an’ boy, I been around this place fifty year or more, on an’ off, an’ I’ve seen ’em diggin’ an’ diggin’ an’ diggin’, but I never seen nothin’ come up, mates. Big Verny hid it well.”

“Did you ever see him?” asked Bee eagerly.

“Often, when I was a youngster. I’ve spoke to him, too. A big man he was, might be six foot an’ more, an’ as strong as a bull.”

“He lived here, didn’t he?” pursued Bee. “Do you remember where his cabin was?”

The visitor’s active eye swept over the slope. “Not exactly,” he answered. “It might have been pretty near where you been diggin—” (An exclamation of satisfaction from Bee.) “Or, again, it might have been more to the land’ard side. I recollect it was between the trees an’ the beach.”

“Then the trees were here then?” asked Jack.

“Them trees has always been here long as I can remember, mate. An’ Big Verny’s cabin was here long before I first seen the island. A funny sort o’ hutch it was, too; built of wreckage an’ pieces o’ tin for a roof. There was a sort o’ shed farther along. He kept a cow an’ a pony in it.”

“Did he live here all alone?” Hal asked.

“No, there was two sons with him some o’ the time. An’ he had a wife once, but she died.”

“Is it true that he used to show lanterns and make ships run on the rocks?” Bee inquired.

“Well, I can’t say as to that, son. There was them as said he did an’ them as said he didn’t. Anyway, there was a sight o’ wrecks around here them days. An’ finally the revenue officers came over here one night—just about sundown it was—and cleaned up the nest. Big Verny they caught, but Jule got away. He was the youngest of the boys. He weren’t so very young neither. Folks say he ran plumb into the sea and swum down the shore to the beach.”

“What became of the other son?”

“He put up a fight an’ they shot him. Died in the jail, I heard. Big Verny was tried and sent to prison. He died too, after.”

“Do you really think he buried anything on the island?” asked Bee.

“Big Verny? Sure he did, mate, an’ some day it’ll be found. It’s here somewhere.” He looked about him speculatively. “Maybe you’ll strike it yourself. Nobody knows where he put it. Some says he buried it near the cabin an’ some says he buried it in the sand. There’s no way o’ knowin’. I used to dig myself years ago when I was younger; blistered my hands many’s the time. Why, I’ve stuck a shovel, one time or another, in most every foot o’ this old hill! Never found any gold, though; ’ceptin’ this, and it be silver.”

He dug a gnarled hand into a pocket of his trousers and brought up a few coins from amongst which he selected a worn one. He flipped it across to Jack.

“What is it?” asked Jack as he examined it.

“A English shillin’. I dug it up somewhere near here; I forget just where, now.”

Bee and Hal examined the coin in turn. It was worn almost smooth, but sharp eyes could still detect the stamping. Bee was eager and excited.

“What have I told you fellows?” he demanded. “If this—gentleman found this here, why, there must be more of them!”

“That’s only silver,” said the man. “There’s gold here too; doubloons, likely, and solid bars of it. An’ jewels, too, most likely. Big Verny caught a lot o’ things in his nets!”

“I wish you could remember where the cabin stood,” said Bee as he returned the coin. The man chuckled hoarsely.

“I’ve often wished the same myself. Likely there’s where he hid his money, mate. Well, I’ll be goin’. Good luck to you, mates; I’m hoping you find them yellow clams. Be you goin’ to stay here long on the island?”

“Until we find that treasure,” replied Bee determinedly.

The man chuckled. “Ho, bully boy! Keep at it, mate, keep at it. You can’t never tell when your shovel’ll strike wood. Then you’ll all be rich, eh? Think o’ them red fellows a-glitterin’ at you, and jewels, red an’ white an’ green an’ blue, a-tricklin’ through your fingers, eh? Aye, aye, good luck to you, mates!”

“Do you live around here?” asked Jack.

The visitor waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the winding river. “Up there when I’m to home. Bill Glass is my name, mate. Lots o’ folks knows Honest Bill Glass. Poor I be, but honest; which is due to my attendin’ Sunday school reg’lar, mates.”

“Fishing, are you?” Jack nodded at the dory pulled up on the beach.

“I do a bit at times. Clammin’, too. Maybe you’d want some clams, mates? I sell ’em cheap. I’ll bring some around to you some day soon. Don’t buy if you don’t want ’em. Honest Bill Glass don’t take money without givin’ complete satisfaction. Poor I be, but honest, mates. Good day to you.”

He went off down the slope, slowly, with an odd drag to his feet, and again stopped at the trench. After a moment he looked up and back and waved a hand. Then he went on. They watched him push off his dory and scramble aboard with an agility surprising in one who looked to be fully fifty-five or -six years old, and settle at the oars. He rowed with short, slow strokes up the river. For several minutes they could follow the course of the old dory, and then it was lost to sight behind the bank at a turn.

“Well, he’s a character,” said Jack. “‘Honest Bill Glass,’ eh? I’ll bet he would steal the shoes off your feet if he had a chance!”

“A regular old pirate is what he looks like,” said Hal. “He might have stepped right out of one of those silly stories you’re forever reading, Bee.”

“Mightn’t he?” agreed Bee with enthusiasm. “But what was the matter with his eyes? Did you notice them?”

“Sure; one of them is glass,” replied Hal. “Gee, I’d hate to meet him on a dark corner at night! I’m not sure I won’t dream of him as it is. I hope he doesn’t come butting in here again.”

“He said he was going to bring us clams,” replied Bee. “I wonder where he lives.”

“Probably up there at the end of the river,” said Jack. “There are two or three shanties near the railroad. I guess, though, we can dig all the clams we need ourselves. I don’t like his looks, fellows.”

“But I’m glad he came,” said Bee. “I was beginning to get a bit discouraged. Now, though, we know that the treasure must be here.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t believe him on oath,” scoffed Hal. “Did you notice that shilling he passed around?”

“Yes, and if he found that here on the island—”

“He didn’t.”

“How do you know he didn’t?” demanded Bee anxiously.

“Because I could read the date on it, even if it was worn almost off. It was 1884. That’s less than thirty years ago, and Old Verny hid his treasure—if he did hide any—more than ten years before that.”

“Are you sure about the date?” asked Bee, crestfallen.

“Ab-so-lutely, old Bee. It was plain as the nose on your face if you held the coin right. I don’t see what he wanted to lie for, though.”

“Then you don’t think he ever saw Old Verny or ever dug here?”

“He may have,” said Jack. “I didn’t see the date on the shilling, but he probably thought he’d have a joke on us. Anyhow, he didn’t seem to remember where the cabin stood, and if he knew Old Verny—Big Verny, he called him—you’d think he’d remember where the old pirate lived.”

“He’s a fakir,” said Hal with decision. “And I’m going to sleep with my revolver under my head tonight. Gee, he may come around here and murder us for our clothes! He wouldn’t get much else, I guess.”

“Oh, I guess he’s a harmless old duffer,” rejoined Jack carelessly. “And I dare say we shan’t see him again. Now, what about going out to The Tombstones? Recovered from those flap-jacks yet?”

“Sure,” said Hal. “Let’s go. Want to, Bee?”

Bee looked undecidedly at the excavations and then at his hand. Finally he nodded. “Yes, I guess so. When we get back I’ll have another spell with the shovel, I think. It’ll be cooler then.”