  With the aid of a flashlight Pant and Kirk were exploring a vast warehouse filled with sacks of chicle. They arrived in their taxi and having been admitted, had been told in a general way where they would find the last cargo that had arrived. “Here! Here it is!” exclaimed Pant at last. “I can recognize the weave of my grandfather’s sacks.” “Perhaps,” he said after a considerable search for his particular sack, “the thread has been accidentally drawn out and lost.” “If it has,” panted Kirk, “we’ll open up every one. We—” “There! There it is!” Pant pounced upon a sack. The green thread shone along its side. With trembling fingers he cut the cord that bound it. A moment later, carrying a mysterious package wrapped in palm leaves, the two boys passed out of the door. A second taxi was hailed. “We’d better go back to Uncle’s office,” said Kirk. “He—he’s awfully square, and knows a lot. He’ll tell us what to do.” Pant scarcely heard him as he was crowded once more into a taxi. His mind was in wild commotion. At last he was in New York, in possession of a vast treasure. Whose treasure was it, the old Don’s or his own? He had read George Elliott’s Romola, remembered Tito, the traitor to an old man, and recalled his terrible end. “I will not be a traitor,” he told himself. “If the treasure appears to belong to the old Don he shall have it, every penny!” At that his troubled mind found rest. “I suppose,” said Kirk, “that you have wondered how I came to be at the old Don’s.” “Often,” said Pant. “Well, you see, my Uncle is my guardian. He holds nearly half the stock of his Company in my name. When I am of age it will be mine to manage. My Uncle believes I should know all there is to be known about the business, from the jungle to the wrapper,” he laughed. “So he sent me down there. He got the Carib giant for my bodyguard, and told me to go where I chose, only to keep my eyes open. I came at last to the old Don’s. I liked it so much up there that I stayed a long time.” “Glorious, wasn’t it!” said Pant. “I’d like to live there with the old Don for a whole year. “This,” he said, patting the package beside him, “will make the old Don rich.” “The old Don! It’s yours!” Kirk stared. “It’s his by direct inheritance.” “How do you know that? Is there a monogram or a coat of arms on the box?” “No.” “Then you will never be sure.” The younger boy’s tone was earnest, entreating. “Don’t spoil the old Don by making him rich.” “It’s not for us to decide what a man’s rightful possessions will do for him,” said Pant thoughtfully. “The only question for us to ask is, ‘Are they his?’” “Perhaps,” he said after a moment’s silence, “your Uncle can help us out.” “I am sure he can,” said Kirk. Nothing could exceed the astonishment of the chicle magnate when, having lifted the lid of the ancient silver box, his eyes fell upon the treasure of pearls within. Instinctively, he stepped back and locked the door to his office. “That’s the greatest treasure that ever rested on my desk,” he whispered. “We must get them to the vault for the night. And you say they belong to Kirk’s friend, the old Don?” “I will tell you,” said Pant. Sitting on the edge of a chair, leaning far forward, muscles tense, eyes aglow, he told the story of the beaten silver box from beginning to end. “Well,” sighed the magnate when the tale was told. “That’s quite a yarn. Wouldn’t believe a word of it if it weren’t for this.” He touched the silver box. “Legally, in a court of law,” he said, rubbing his forehead thoughtfully, “your old Don wouldn’t have much chance. You could hold the pearls. Anyway, in this case possession is nine points of the law. You have only to pay the duty on them, then sell them.” “But I don’t want—” “You want to do the square thing,” the magnate interrupted. “Then why not call it a case of salvage, and split the proceeds fifty-fifty. That will give each of you more money than you are likely to have any use for, and certainly more than you need. “If your grandfather is interested in chicle,” he added, “tell him I’ll sell you an interest in our Company. Then in years to come you and Kirk will be partners. Pant and Kirk, Chicle Exporters. How does that sound?” He threw back his head and laughed. “Great! Wonderful!” they exclaimed together. The beaten silver box took one more ride that day—to the Custom’s offices. There it was placed in a vault until the value of the pearls could be settled upon. A few days later the pearls were parcelled out in groups and sold to several dealers for a considerable fortune. A few days after the docking of the North Star, a happy group sat about a table in a small dining room of the most sumptuous of New York hotels. They had met there, Johnny, Pant, Kennedy and Madge, for a farewell feast. Business had been disposed of, and the Kennedys were going home. “Johnny,” said Kennedy as he rose to stand before a pretty open fireplace, “it would be nice if we might have a bit of a wood fire. Makes a fellow feel sort of cheerful.” “Not there. You couldn’t,” said Johnny. “That’s not a real fireplace. It has no flue.” “Then what is it for?” “To add a suggestion of comfort.” Only half satisfied, the old jungle man sat down. “Seems a bit stuffy,” he said a moment later. “Let’s open a window.” “Those are not windows,” said Johnny. “They are looking-glasses that seem windows. We are probably a half block from any outer wall. This hotel covers an entire block.” “A sham!” said Kennedy, rising. “This whole thing’s sham. This is my party. I’m paying the bill. There’s a real ship with a real cabin down in the harbor. There are real windows in her that look out on a real harbor. I propose that we eat there.” So aboard the ship they dined and talked. The food was good. The talk was better. Old days and new were discussed. Pant was to sail with the Kennedys. He was going back to Central America to make his grandfather and the old Don comfortable for life. The Kennedys were going home. That was quite enough for them. Johnny, who alone was to remain, felt a little lonesome. “Some day,” Johnny said to Madge as they parted, “when I am tired, when the rush and push that is our America gets too much for me, I am coming back to Stann Creek, to listen to the thrum of the banjo and the Caribs’ song, to watch the moon rise over the jungle and to smell the forbidden fruit ripening on the trees.” “Please do,” said Madge Kennedy, brushing at her eyes. “The latchstring’s out and the door swings in,” said Kennedy, gripping his hand, “and may God bless you for all you have done.” So they parted. Pant returned to the jungle. There he was destined to remain for many a day to come; for was not his Grandfather there and the old Don, and last but not least, the beautiful Senorita Ramoncita Salazar? What better company could he ask and what more thrilling adventures could be found than awaits one at every turn of jungle trail? As for Johnny, the city with its imitation fireplaces, its mirror windows and much more that is artificial and unreal, could not hold him long. One day he met a curious sort of chap with a strange hobby. Fascinated by this man’s tale of adventure, he joined company with him. The story of these fresh adventures in a land far from tropical wilds will be found in our next book, “Johnny Long-Bow.” |
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