My
Chum, Charley Burnett, and I are the same age--seventeen last
October--and we built the boat last winter. When we got through the Lake
Borgne Ship Canal below New Orleans, we ran against a lot of rough
fellows who tried to steal our boat. We held them at the point of a gun
and ran away from their tubby old boats. Then when we got a little
farther along the coast--to Bay St. Louis--we were warned to turn back.
"Warned to turn back?" repeated the boys in chorus. "By whom?"
"A black browed chap who gave the name of Wyckoff, and who said that he
wouldn't have anyone fooling around the Spanish Chest but those who
rightfully should share the treasure. We didn't know what he meant, and
told him so, but he wouldn't believe us."
"The Spanish Treasure Chest!" gasped Jack. "What about it?"
"I don't know anything about it!" stoutly asserted Frank.
"We've heard a little about it," volunteered Jack, "but nothing
definite. We would like to know more and to know why these fellows
should oppose your coming to this vicinity."
"I've told you all I know about that part of the story," declared Frank.
"Now you know as much as I do in that line."
"What did this Wyckoff look like?" asked Harry eagerly.
"He's black--I don't mean that he's a negro,--but he's one of these
fellows with a blue-black beard that never can be shaved clean because
it shows black under the skin. Then he's got a shifty eye and a sneaky
look about him. Then, too," he added with a smile, "he's got a smashed
nose where my fist landed when he put me ashore here.
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