Chapter 34 of Tales of a Traveler by Washington Irving This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Greg Giordano. Chapter 34 Wulfurt Weber or Golden Dreams Part II He was a man of while-loon race, and illustrious for the antiquity of his line, his great-grandmother having been the first white child born in the province, but he was still more illustrious for his wealth and dignity. He had long filled the noble office of Alderman, and was a man to whom the Governor himself took off his hat. He had maintained possession of the leathern bottom chair from time immemorial, in a gradually waxed and bulk, as he sat in his seat of government, until in the course of years he filled its whole magnitude. His word was decisive with his subjects, for he was so rich a man that he was never expected to support any opinion by argument. The landlord waited on him with peculiar officiousness, not that he paid better than his neighbors, but then the coin of the rich man seemed always to be so much more acceptable. The landlord had always a pleasant word and a joke, to insinuate in the ear of the August Rom. It is true, Rom never laughed, and never indeed maintained a mastiff-like gravity, and even sterliness of aspect. And he now and then rewarded mine host with a token of approbation, which, though nothing more nor less than a kind of grunt, yet delighted the landlord more than a broad laugh from a poorer man. This will be a rough night for the money-diggers," said mine host, as a gust of wind howled round the house and rattled at the windows. What! Are they at their works again? Said an English half-pay captain, with one eye, who was a frequent attendant at the inn. I? Are they? Said the landlord. And well may they be. They've had luck of late. They see a great pot of money has been dug up in the field, just behind Stuyvesant's orchard. Folks think it must have been buried there in old times by Peter Stuyvesant, the Dutch governor. Fudge! said the one-eyed man of war, as he added a small portion of water to a bottom of brandy. Well, you may believe it, or not, as you please. Said mine host, somewhat nettle, but everybody knows that the old governor buried a great deal of his money at the time of the Dutch troubles, when the English redcoat seized on the province. They say, too, the old gentleman walks, I, and in the very same dress that he wears in the picture, which hangs up in the family house. Fudge! said the half-pay officer. Fudge, if you please! But didn't Cornivon Zant see him at midnight, stalking about in the meadow with his wooden leg, and a drawn sword in his hand that flashed like fire? And what can he be walking for? But because people have been troubling the place where he buried his money in old times. Here the landlord was interrupted by several guttural sounds from Ram Rapalai, betokening that he was laboring with the unusual production of an idea, as he was too great a man to be slighted by a prudent publican. Mind host respectfully paused until he should deliver himself. The corpulent frame of this mighty burger now gave all the symptoms of a volcanic mountain on the point of an eruption. First there was a certain heaving of the abdomen, not unlike an earthquake, then was emitted a cloud of tobacco smoke from that crater, his mouth, and there was a kind of rattle in his throat as if the idea were working its way up through a region of phlegm. Then there were several disjointed members of a sentence thrown out, ending in a cough. At length his voice forced its way in the slow but absolute tone of a man who feels the weight of his purse, if not of his ideas, every portion of his speech being marked by a testy puff of tobacco smoke. Who talks of old Peter Stuyvesant's walking puff? Have people no respect for persons puff puff? Peter Stuyvesant knew better what to do with his money than to bury it puff. I know the Stuyvesant family hum puff. Every one of them puff, not a more respectable family in the province puff. Old standards, puff, warm householders, puff, none of your upstarts, puff puff puff. Don't talk to me of Peter Stuyvesant's walking puff puff puff puff. Here the redoubtable rom contracted his brow, clasped up his mouth, till it wrinkled at each corner, and redoubled his smoking with such vehemence that the cloudly volume soon re-throwed his head as the smoke envelops the awful summit of Mount Etna. A general silence followed the sudden rebuke of this very rich man. The subject, however, was too interesting to be readily abandoned. The conversation soon broke forth again from the lips of Peechie-Prawl-Van-Hook, the chronicler of the club, one of those narrative old men who seemed to grow incontinent of words as they grow old, until their talk flows from them almost involuntarily. Peechie, who could at any time tell as many stories in an evening as his hearers could digest in a month, now resumed the conversation. By affirming that, to his knowledge, money had at different times been dug up in various parts of the island. The lucky persons who had discovered them had always dreamt of them three times beforehand, and what was worthy of remark these treasures had never been found but by some descendant of the good old Dutch families, which clearly proved that they had been buried by Dutchmen in the olden times. "'Fiddle stick with your Dutchmen!' cried the half-pay officer, that Dutch had nothing to do with them. They were all buried by Kid, the pirate, and his crew. Here a key note was touched that roused the whole company. The name of Captain Kid was like a talisman in those times, and was associated with a thousand marvellous stories. The half-pay officer was a man of great weight among the peaceable members of the club, by reason of his military character, and of the gunpowder scenes which, by his own account, he had witnessed. The golden stories of Kid, however, were resolutely rivaled by the tales of Peechie Praw, who, rather than suffer his Dutch progenitors, to be eclipsed by a foreign freebooter, enriched every spot in the neighborhood with the hidden wealth of Peter's divascent and his contemporaries. Not a word of this conversation was lost upon Wilfred Weber. He returned pensively home, full of magnificent ideas of buried riches. The soil of his native island seemed to be turned into gold dust, and every field teem with treasure. His head almost reeled at the thought how often he must have heedlessly rambled over places for countless sums lay, scarcely covered by the turf beneath his feet. His mind was in a vertigo with this world of new ideas. As he came in sight of the venerable mansion of his forefathers, in a little realm where the Webers had so long and so contentedly flourished, his gorge rose at the narrowness of his destiny. "'Unlucky, Wilfred!' exclaimed he. Others can go to bed and dream themselves into whole minds of wealth. They have but to seize a spade in the morning, and turn up to blooms like potatoes. But thou must dream of hardship, and rise to poverty. Must dig thy fields from year's end to year's end, and yet raise nothing but cabbages!' Wilfred Weber went to bed with a heavy heart. When it was long before the golden visions that disturbed his brain, permitted him to sink into repose. The same visions, however, extended into his sleeping thoughts, and assumed a more definite form. He dreamt that he had discovered an immense treasure in the center of his garden. At every stroke of the spade he laid bare a golden ingot, diamond crosses sparkled out of the dust, bags of money turned up their bellies, corpulent with pieces of eight, or venerable doubloons and chests wedged close with mordwares, duckets, and pisterines yawned before his ravished eyes, and vomited forth their glittering contents. Wilfred awoke a poorer man than ever. He had no heart to go about his daily concerns, which appeared so paltry and profitless, but sat all day long in the chimney-corner, picturing to himself ingots and heaps of gold in the fire. The next night his dream was repeated. He was again in his garden, digging and laying open stores of hidden wealth. There was something very singular in this repetition. He passed another day of reverie, and though it was cleaning day, and the house, as usual in Dutch households, completely topsy-turvy, yet he sat unmoved amidst the general uproar. The third night he went to bed with a palpitating heart. He put on his red nightcap, wrong side-outwards for good luck. It was deep midnight before his anxious mind had settled itself into sleep. Again the golden dream was repeated, and again he saw his garden teeming with ingots and money-bags. Wilfred rose the next morning in complete bewilderment. A dream three times repeated was never known to lie, and if so his fortune was made. In his agitation he put on his waistcoat with the hind part before, and this was a corroboration of good luck. He no longer doubted that a huge store of money lay buried somewhere in his cabbage-field, coily waiting to be sought for, and he half repined at having so long been scratching about the surface of the soil, instead of digging to the center. He took his seat at the breakfast-table, full of these speculations, asked his daughter to put a lump of gold into his tea, and on handing his wife a plate of slap-jacks, begging her to help herself to a doubloon. His grand care now was how to secure this immense treasure without it being known. Instead of working regularly in his grounds in the daytime, he now stole from his bed at night, and with spade and pickaxe went to work to rip up and dig about his paternal acres, from one end to the other, in a little time the whole garden, which had presented such a goodly and regular appearance, with its failings of cabbages like a vegetable army in battle-oray, was reduced to a scene of devastation. While the relentless Wulfurt, with my cap on head, and lantern and spade in hand, stalked through the slaughtered ranks the destroying angel of his own vegetable world, every morning bore testimony to the ravages of the preceding night and cabbages of all ages and conditions, from the tender sprout to the full-grown head, piteously rooted from their quiet beds, like worthless weeds, and left to wither in the sunshine. It was in vain, Wulfurt's wife remonstrated. It was in vain his darling daughter wept over the destruction of some favorite merry-gold. Thou shalt have gold of another guest-sort, he would cry, chucking her under the chin. Thou shalt have a string of crooked duckets for thy wedding necklace, my child. His family began really to fear that the poor man's wits were diseased. He muttered in his sleep at night of mines of wealth, of pearls and diamonds and bars of gold. In the day-time he was moody and abstracted, and walked about as if in a trance. Dame Weber held frequent councils with all the old women of the neighborhood, not omitting the parish domini. Scarce an hour in the day, but a knot of them might be seen wagging their white caps together round her door, while the poor woman made some piteous recital. The daughter, too, was feigned to seek for more frequent consolation from the stolen interviews of her favorite swain, Dirk Waldron. The delectable little Dutch songs with which she used to deulsify the house grew less and less frequent, and she would forget her sewing and look wistfully in her father's face as he sat pondering by the fireside. Dirk caught her eye one day, fixed on him thus anxiously, and for a moment was roused from his golden reveries. "'Cheer up, my girl,' said he exultingly. "'I dust thou droop.  The Patroon himself shall be glad to get thee for his son.' Amy shook her head at this vain glorious boast, and was more than ever in doubt of the soundness of the good man's intellect. In the meantime Wolford went on digging, but the field was extensive, and as his dream had indicated in a precise spot he had to dig at random. The winter set in before one-tenth of the scene of promise had been explored. The ground became too frozen, and the night's too cold for the labors of the spade. It was sooner, however, did the returning warmth of spring loosen the soil, and the small frogs began to pipe in the meadows, but Wolford resumed his labors with renovated zeal. Still, however, the hours of industry were reversed. Instead of working cheerily all day, planting and setting out his vegetables, he remained thoughtfully idle, until the shades of night summoned him to his secret labors. In this way he continued to dig from night to night, and week to week, and month to month, but not a stiver did he find. On the contrary, the more he digged, the poorer he grew. The rich soil of his garden was digged away, and the sand and gravel from beneath were thrown to the surface, until the whole field presented an aspect of sandy barrenness. In the meantime the seasons gradually rolled on. The little frogs that had piped in the meadows in early spring croaked as bullfrogs in the brooks during the summer heats, and then sunk into silence. The peach tree budded, blossomed and bore its fruit. The swallows and martins came, twittered about the roof, built their nests, reared their young, held their conqurissa, longed the eaves, and then winged their flight in search of another spring. The caterpillar spun its winding sheet, dangled in it from the great buttonwood tree that shaded the house, turned into a moth, fluttered with the last sunshine of summer, and disappeared, and finally the leaves of the buttonwood tree turned yellow, then brown, then rustled one by one to the ground, and whirling about in little eddies of wind and dust, whispered that winter was at hand. CHAPTER XXXIV WOLFORT WEBER OR GOLDEN DREAMS PART III Wolt gradually awoke from his dream of wealth as the year declined. He had reared no crop to supply the wants of his household during the sterility of winter. The season was long and severe, and for the first time the family was really straightened in its comforts. By degrees a revulsion of thought took place in Wolford's mind. Common to those whose golden dreams have been disturbed by pinching realities. The idea gradually stole upon him that he should come to want. He already considered himself one of the most unfortunate men in the province, having lost such an incalculable amount of undiscovered treasure. And now, when thousands of pounds had eluded his search, to be perplexed for shillings and pence was cruel in the extreme. Haggard Care gathered about his brow. He went about with a money-seeking air. His eyes bent downwards into the dust, and carrying his hands in his pockets as men are apt to do when they have nothing else to put into them. He could not even pass the city alms-house without giving it a rueful glance, as if destined to be his future abode. The strangeness of his conduct and of his looks occasioned much speculation and remark. For a long time he was suspected of being crazy, and then everybody pitied him. At length it began to be suspected that he was poor, and then everybody avoided him. The rich old burgers of his acquaintance met him, outside of the door when he called, and retained him hospitably on the threshold, pressed him warmly by the hand on parting, shook their heads as he walked away, with the kind-hearted expressions of, poor Wilfert, and turned a corner nimbly, if by chance they saw him approaching as they walked the streets. Even the barber and cobbler of the neighborhood and a tattered tailor in an alley hard by, three of the poorest and merriest rogues in the world eyed him without abundant sympathy, which usually attends a lack of means, and there is not a doubt but their pockets would have been at his command, only that they happened to be empty. Thus everybody deserted the Weber mansion, as if poverty were contagious, like the plague. Everybody but honest Dirk Waldron, who still kept up his stolen visits to the daughter, and indeed seemed to wax more affectionate as the fortunes of his mistress were on the wane. Many months had elapsed since Wilfert had frequented his old resort, the Royal Inn. He was taking a long, lonely walk one Saturday afternoon, musing over his wants and disappointments, when his feet took instinctively their wanted direction, and on awakening out of a reverie, he found himself before the door of the Inn. For some moments he hesitated whether to enter, but his heart and urine for companionship, he worked in a ruined man, find better companionship, than in a tavern, where there is neither sober example or sober advice to put him out of countenance. Wilfert found several of the old frequenters of the tavern at their usual posts, and seated in their usual places. But one was missing, the great Rom Repeli, who for many years had filled the chair of state. His place was supplied by a stranger, who seemed, however, completely at home in the chair and the tavern. He was rather undersized, but deep-chested, square and muscular. His broad shoulders, double joints and bow knees, gave tokens of prodigious strength. His face was dark and mother-beaten. A deep scar, as if from the slash of a cutlass, had almost divided his nose and made a gash in his upper lip, through which his teeth shone like a bulldog's. A massive iron-grey hair gave a grisly finish to his hard favored visage. His dress was of an amphibious character. He wore an old hat edged with tarnished lace, and cocked in marshal style, on one side of his head. A rusty blue military coat with brass buttons, and a wide pair of short petticoat trousers, were rather breeches, for they were gathered up at the knees. He ordered everybody about him, with an authoritative air, talked in a rattling voice, that sounded like the crackling of thorns under a pot, damned the landlord and servants with perfect impunity, and was weighted upon with greater obsequiousness than had ever been shown to the mighty Rom himself. Wilford's curiosity was awakened to know who and what was this stranger who had thus usurped absolute sway in this ancient domain. He could get nothing, however, but vague information. She-praw took him aside into a remote corner of the hall, and there, in an under-voice, and with great caution, imparted to him all that he knew on the subject. The inn had been aroused several months before, on a dark stormy night, but it repeated long shouts, and seemed like the howlings of a wolf. They came from the water side, and at length were distinguished to be hailing the house in the seafaring manner. "'House ahoy!' the landlord turned out with his head-waiter, tapster, hosteler, errand-boy, that is to say with his old negro cuff. On approaching the place from whence the voice proceeded, they found this amphibious-looking personage at the water's edge, quite alone, and seated on a great oak-and-sea-chest. How he came there, whether he had been set on shore from some boat, or had floated to land on his chest, nobody could tell, for he did not seem disposed to answer questions, and there was something in his looks and manners that put a stop to all questioning. Suffice it to say, he took possession of a corner-room of the inn, to which his chest removed with great difficulty. Here he had remained ever since, keeping about the inn and its vicinity. Sometimes, it is true, he disappeared for one, two, or three days at a time, going and returning, without giving any notice or account of his movements. He always appeared to have plenty of money, though, often of very strange, outlandish coinage, and he regularly paid his bill every evening before turning in. He had fitted up his room to his own fancy, having slung a hammock from the ceiling instead of a bed, and decorated the walls with rusty pistols, and cutlesses of foreign workmanship. Great part of his time was passed in this room, seated by the window, which commanded a wide view of the sound, a short, old-fashioned pipe in his mouth, a glass of rum-tadi at his elbow, and a pocket telescope in his hand, with which he re-acnoitered every boat that moved upon the water. Large square-rigged vessels seemed to excite but little attention. At the moment he described anything with a shoulder of mutton sail, whether the barge, or yaw, or jolly boat, hove in sight, up went the telescope, and he examined it with the most scrupulous attention. All this might have passed without much notice, for in those times the province was so much the resort of adventurers of all characters and climes that any oddity in dress or behavior attracted but little attention. But in a little while the strange sea monster, thus strangely cast up on dry land, began to encroach upon the long-established customs and customers of the place, to interfere in a dictatorial manner in the affairs of the nine-pin alley and the bar-room, until in the end he usurped an absolute command over the little inn. It was in vain to attempt to withstand its authority. He was not exactly quarrelsome, but boisterous and preemptory, like one accustomed to tyrannize on a quarter-deck. And there was a dare-double air about everything he said and did that inspired warriness in all bystanders. Even the half-pay officer, so long the hero of the club, was soon silenced by him, and the quiet-burgers stared with wonder, had seen their inflammable man of war so readily and quietly extinguished. And then the tales that he would tell were enough to make a peaceable man's hair stand on end. There was not a sea-fight or marauding or a free-booting adventure that had happened within the last twenty years. But he seemed perfectly versed in it. He delighted to talk of the exploits of the buccaneers in the West Indies, and on the Spanish Main, how his eyes would glisten as he described the wailing of treaships, the desperate fights, yarn-arm and yarn-arm, broadside and broadside, the boarding and capturing of large, Spanish galleons, with what chuckling relish would he describe the descent upon some rich Spanish colony, the rifling of a church, the sacking of a convent. You would have thought you had heard some gormandizer dilating upon the roasting of savory goose at Michaelmas, as he described the roasting of some Spanish dawn to make him discover his treasure. A detailed given, with a minuteness, that made every rich old burger present turn uncomfortably in his chair. All this would be told with infinite glee, as if he considered it an excellent joke.  If anyone, however, tended to contradict him in any of his stories, he was on fire in an instant. His very cocked hat assumed a momentary fierceness, and seemed to resent the contradiction. How the devil should you know as well as I? I tell you it was, as I say. Then he would at the same time let slip a broad side of thundering oaths and tremendous sea-phrases, such as had never been heard before within those peaceful walls. Indeed, the worthy burgers began to surmise, and he knew more of these stories than mere hearsay. Day after day their conjectures concerning him grew more and more wild and fearful. The strangeness of his manners, the mystery that surrounded him, all made him something incomprehensible in their eyes. He was a kind of monster of the deep to them. He was a merman. He was a behemoth. He was a leviathan. In short, they knew not what he was. The domineering spirit of this boisterous sea-ergenant length grew quite intolerable. He was no respecter of persons. Contradicted the richest burgers without hesitation, he took possession of the sacred elbow-chair, which time out of mind had been the seat of sovereignty, of the illustrious Rom Rappley. Nay! He even went so far in one of his rough, jocular moods, as to slap that mighty burger on the back, drink his toddy, and wink in his face. A thing scarcely to be believed. From this time Rom Rappley appeared no more at the inn. His example was followed by several of the most eminent customers, who were too rich to tolerate being bullied out of their opinions, or being obliged to laugh at another man's jokes. The landlord was almost in despair. But he knew not how to get rid of the sea-monster and his sea-chest, which seemed to have grown like fixtures, or ex-creasances, on his establishment. Such was the account whispered cautiously and Wolford's ear, by the narrator, P. G. Prow, as he held him by the button in a corner of the hall, casting a wary glance now and then towards the door of the bar-room, lest he should be overheard by the terrible hero of his tale. Wolford took his seat in a remote part of the room in silence, impressed with profound awe of this unknown, so versed in free-booting history. It was to him a wonderful instance of the revolutions of mighty empires, to find the venerable Ram Rappley thus ousted from the throne, a rugged tarpaulin dictating from his elbow-chair, hecturing the patriarchs, and filling this tranquil little realm with brawl and bravado. The stranger was on this evening, in a more than usually communicative mood, and was narrating a number of astounding stories of plunderings and burnings upon the high seas. He dwelt upon them with peculiar relish, heightening the frightful particulars in proportion to their effect on his peaceful auditors. He gave a long, swaggering detail of the capture of a Spanish merchantman, whose laying becalmed during a long summer's day, just off from an island which was one of the lurking places of the pirates. They had reconnoitred her with their spyglasses from the shore, and ascertained her character and force. At night a picked crew of dearing fellows set off for her in a whale-boat. They approached with muffled oars, as she lay rocking idly with the undulations of the sea, and her sails flapping against the masts. They were close under her stern, before the guard on deck was aware of their approach. The alarm was given. The pirates threw hand grenades on deck, and sprang up the main chains sword in hand. The crew flew to arms, but in great confusion some were shot down. Others took refuge in the tops. Others were driven overboard and drowned, while others fought hand-to-hand from the main deck to the quarter-deck, disputing gallantly every inch of ground. There were three Spanish gentlemen on board with their ladies, who made the most desperate resistance. They defended the companion-way, cut down several of their assailants, and fought like very devils, for they were maddened by the shrieks of the ladies from the cabin. One of the dons was old and soon dispatched. The other two kept their ground vigorously, even though the captain of the pirate was among their assailants. Just then there was a shot of victory from the main deck. The ship is ours! cried the pirates. One of the dons immediately dropped his sword and surrendered.  The captain just made out to articulate the words, No Quarter. And what did they do with their prisoners? said Pichipra, eagerly. Through them all overboard, said the Merman. A dead pause followed this reply.  The honest burgers cast fearful glances at the deep scar slashed across the visage of the stranger, and moved their chairs a little farther off. The semen, however, smoked on without moving a muscle, as though he either did not perceive, or did not regard the unfavorable effect he had produced upon his hearers. The half-pay officer was the first to break the silence, for he was continually tempted to make ineffectual head against this tyrant of the seas, and to regain his lost consequence in the eyes of his agent companions. He now tried to match the gunpowder tails of the stranger, by others equally tremendous. Kid, as usual, was his hero, concerning whom he had picked up many of the floating traditions of the province. The semen had always invinced a subtle peek against the red-faced warrior. On this occasion he listened with peculiar impatience. He sat with one arm at Kimbo, the other elbow on a table, the hand holding onto the small pipe he was fetishly spuffing. His legs crossed, drumming with one foot on the ground, and casting every now and then the side glance of a basilisk at the frozen captain. At length the latter spoke of kids having ascended the Hudson, the sum of his crew, to land his plunder in secrecy. Kid up the Hudson! Burst forth the semen, with the tremendous oath, Kid never was up the Hudson. I tell you he was, said the other, I, and they say he buried a quantity of treasure on the little flat that runs out into the river, called the Devil's Dan's Camer. The Devil's Dan's Camer, in your teeth! cried the semen. I tell you Kid never was up the Hudson. What the plague do you know of Kid and his haunts? Do I know? echoed the Half-Pay officer. Why, I was in London at the time of his trial, I and I had the pleasure of seeing him hanged at Execution Dock. Then, sir, let me tell you that you saw as pretty a fellow hanged as ever trod shoe-leather, I, putting his face nearer to that of the officer, and there was many a coward looked on that might much better have swung in his stead. The Half-Pay officer was silenced, but the indignation thus pent up in his bosom, and glowed with intense vehemence in his single eye, which kindled like a coal. Peachy-praw, who never could remain silent, now took up the word, in an apacifying tone, observed that the gentleman certainly was in the right. Kid never did bury money up the Hudson, nor indeed in any of those parts. The many affirmed the fact, it was Braddish and others of the buccaneers, who had buried money, some said in Turtle Bay, others in Long Island, others in the neighborhood of Hellgate. Indeed, added he, I recollected a venture of Mud Sam, the Negro fisherman, many years ago, which some think had something to do with the buccaneers, as we are all friends here, and as it will go no farther, I'll tell it to you. On a dark night, many years ago, as Sam was returning from fishing in Hellgate, here the story was nipped in the bud by a sudden movement from the unknown, who, laying his iron fist on the table, knuckles downward, with a quiet force that indented the very boards, and looking grimly over his shoulder with a grin of an angry bear. Harky neighbor! said he, with significant nodding of the head, you'd better let the buccaneers and their money alone. They're not for old men and old women to meddle with. They fought hard for their money.  This sudden explosion was exceeded by a blank silence throughout the room. P. G. Praw shrunk within himself, and even the red-faced officer turned pale. Wolfert, who, from a dark corner of the room, had listened with intense eagerness to all this talk about buried treasure, looked with mingled awe and reverence on this bold buccaneer. For such he really suspected him to be. There was a chinking of gold and a sparkling of jewels in all his stories about the Spanish Maine. They give a value to every period, and Wolfert would have given anything for the rummaging of the ponderous sea-chest, which his imagination crammed full of gold and chalices and crucifixes and jolly round bags of doubloons. The dead stillness that had fallen upon the company was at length interrupted by the stranger, who pulled out a prodigious watch of curious and ancient workmanship in which in Wolfert's eyes had decidedly Spanish look. Upon touching a spring it struck at ten o'clock, upon which the sailor called for his reckoning, and having paid it out of a handful of outlandish coin, he drank off the remainder of his beverage, and without taking leave of anyone, rolled out of the room, muttering to himself as he stamped upstairs to his chamber. It was some time before the company could recover from the silence into which they had been thrown. The very footsteps of the stranger, which were heard now and then, as he traversed his chamber, inspired all. Still the conversation in which they had been engaged was too interesting not to be resumed. A heavy thunder-dust had gathered up unnoticed while they were lost in talk, and the torrents of rain that fell forbade all thoughts of setting off for home until the storm should subside. They drew nearer together, therefore, and entreated the worthy Preachy Praw to continue the tale, which had been so discreetly interrupted. He readily complied, whispering, however, in a tone scarcely above his breath, and drowned occasionally by the rolling of the thunder, and he would pause every now and then, and listen with evident awe, as he heard the heavy footsteps of the stranger pacing overhead. The following is the purport of his story. CHAPTER XI. He knows Mudd Sam, the old Negro fisherman, who has fished about the sound for the last twenty or thirty years. Well it is now many years since that Sam, who was then a young fellow, and worked on the farm of Kilian, Sodom, on Long Island. Having finished his work early, was fishing one still summer evening just about the neighborhood of Hellgate. He was in a light skiff, and being well acquainted with the currents and eddies, he had been able to shift his station with the shifting of the tide. From the hen and chickens to the hog's back, and from the hog's back to the pot, and from the pot to the frying pan. But in the eagerness of his sport, Sam did not see that the tide was rapidly ebbing, until the roaring of the whirlpools and rapids warned him of his danger. And he had some difficulty in shooting his skiff from among the rocks and breakers, and getting to the point of Blackwell's Island. Here he cast anchor for some time, waiting the turn of the tide to enable him to return homewards. As the night set in, it grew blustering and gusty. Dark clouds came bundling up in the west, and now and then a growl of thunder, or a flash of lightning, told that a summer storm was at hand. Sam pulled over, therefore, under the lee of Manhattan Island, and coasting along came to a snug nook, just under a steep, meadling rock, where he fastened his skiff to the root of a tree that shot out from a cleft, and spread its broad branches like a canopy over the water. The gust came scouring along. The wind threw up the river in white surges. The rain rattled among the leaves. The thunder bellowed worse than that, which is now bellowing. The lightning seemed to lick up the surges of the stream. But Sam, snugly sheltered under rock and tree, lay crouched in his skiff, rocking upon the billows, until he fell asleep. When he awoke, all was quiet. The gust had passed away, and only now and then a faint gleam of lightning in the east showed which way it had gone. The night was dark and moonless, and from the state of the tide Sam concluded it was near midnight. He was on the point of making loose his skiff to return homewards, when he saw a light gleaming along the water from a distance, which seemed rapidly approaching. As it drew near, he perceived that it came from a lantern in the bow of a boat, which was gliding along under shadow of the land. It pulled up in a small cove, close to where he was. A man jumped on shore, and searching about with the lantern exclaimed, �This is the place! Here is the iron ring!� The boat was then made fast, and the man returning on board assisted his comrades in conveying something heavy on shore. As the light gleamed among them, Sam saw that they were five stout, desperate-looking fellows, and red woolen caps, with a leader in a three-cornered hat, and that some of them were armed with dirks or long knives and pistols. They talked low to one another, and occasionally in some outlandish tongue which he could not understand. In landing they made their way among the bushes, taking turns to relieve each other, and lugging their burden up the rocky bank. Sam's curiosity was now fully aroused, so leaving his skiff he clamped silently up the ridge that overlooked their path. They had stopped to rest for a moment, and the leader was looking about among the bushes with his lantern. �Have you brought the spades?� said one. �They are here!� replied another, who had them on his shoulder. �We must dig deep, for there will be no risk of discovery� said a third. A cold chill ran through Sam's veins. He fancied he saw before him a gang of murderers about to bury their victim. His knees smote together. In his agitation he shook the branch of a tree with which he was supporting himself, as he looked over the edge of the cliff. �What's that?� cried one of the gang. �Someone stirs among the bushes!� The lantern was held up in the direction of the noise. One of the red-caps cocked the pistol and pointed it towards the very place where Sam was standing. He stood motionless, breathless, expecting the next moment to be his last. Fortunately his dingy complexion was in his favour, and made no glare among the leaves. �Tis no one� said the man with the lantern. �What a plague!  The burden was resumed, and the party slowly toiled up the bank. Sam watched them as they went, the light sending back fitful gleams through the dripping bushes, and it was not till they were fairly out of sight that the adventure to draw breath freely. He now thought of getting back to his boat and making his escape out of the reach of such dangerous neighbours. But curiosity was all-powerful with poor Sam. He hesitated and lingered and listened. By and by he heard the strokes of spades. �They are digging the grave!� said he to himself. The cold sweat started upon his forehead. Every stroke of a spade, as it sounded through the silent groves, went to his heart. It was evident there was as little noise made as possible. Everything had an air of mystery and secrecy. Sam had a great relish for the horrible. A tale of murder was a treat for him, and he was a constant attendant at executions. He could not therefore resist an impulse, in spite of every danger, to steal nearer and overlook the villains at their work. He crawled along cautiously, therefore, inch by inch, stepping with yet most care among the dry leaves, lest their rustling should betray him. He came at length to where a steep rock intervened between him and the gang. He saw the light of their lantern shining up against the branches of the trees on the other side. Sam slowly and silently clambered up the surface of the rock, and raising his head above its naked edge, beheld the villains immediately below him, and so near that though he dreaded discovery, he dared not withdraw lest the leased movement should be heard. In this way he remained, with his round black face peering over the edge of the rock, like the sun just emerging above the edge of the horizon, with a round-cheeked moon on the dial of a clock. The redcaps had nearly finished their work, the grave was filled up, and they were carefully replacing the turf. This done had scattered dry leaves over the place, and now, said the leader, I defy the devil himself to find it out. The murderers exclaimed Sam involuntarily. The whole gang started, and looking up, beheld the round black head of Sam, just above them.  We're discovered! cried one. Down with him! cried another. Sam heard the cocking of a pistol, but did not pause for the report. He scrambled over a rock and stone.  In every direction you heard someone or other of the gang hemming him in. At length he reached the rocky ridge along the river. One of the redcaps was hard behind him. A steep rock, like a wall, rose directly in his way. It seemed to cut off all retreat when he aspired the strong cord-like branch of a grapevine reaching halfway down it. He sprang at it with the force of a desperate man, seized it with both hands, and, being young and agile, succeeded in swinging himself to the summit of the cliff. Here he stood in full relief against the sky, when the redcap cocked his pistol and fired. The ball whistled by Sam's head. With the lucky thought of a man in an emergency he uttered a yell, fell to the ground, and detached at the same time a fragment of the rock which tumbled with a loud splash into the river. I've done his business, said the redcap, to one or two of his comrades, as they arrived panting. He'll tell no tales, except to the fishes in the river.  Sam sliding silently down the surface of the rock, let himself quietly into his skiff, cast loose the fastening, and abandoned himself to the rapid current, which in that place runs like a mill stream, and soon swept him off from the neighborhood. It was not, however, until he had drifted a great distance that he ventured to ply his oars, when he made his skiff dart like an arrow through the strait of Hell Gate, never heeding the danger of pot, frying pan, or hogs-back itself. Roded he feel himself thoroughly secure, until safely nestled in bed in the cockloft of the ancient farmhouse of the Sadams. Here the worthy Apici paused to take breath, and to take a sip of the gossip tankard that stood at his elbow. His auditors remained with open mouths and outstretched necks, gaping like a nest of swallows for an additional mouthful. "'And is that all?' exclaimed the half-pay officer. "'That's all that belongs to the story,' said P.G. Praw. "'And did Sam never find out what was buried by the red caps?' said Wilfert eagerly, whose mind was haunted by nothing but ingots and doubloons. "'Not that I know of. He had no time to spare from his work. And to tell the truth. He did not like to run the risk of another race among the rocks. Besides, how should you recollect the spot where the grave had been digged? Everything would look different by daylight. And then, where was the use of looking for a dead body, when there was no chance of hanging the murderers?' "'Aye. But are you sure it was a dead body they buried?' said Wilfert. "'To be sure,' cried P.G. Praw, exultingly. "'Does it not haunt in the neighborhood to this very day?' "'Hunts?' exclaimed several of the party, while bringing their eyes still wider and edging their chairs still closer. "'Aye. Haunts,' repeated P.G. "'Has none of you heard of Father Redcap that haunts the old burnt farmhouse in the woods, on the border of the sound, near Hellgate?' "'Oh, to be sure. I've heard tell of something of the kind. But then I took it for some old wife's tale. Old wise fable or not,' said P.G. Praw, that farmhouse stands hard by the very spot. It's been unoccupied time out of mind, and stands in a wild, lonely part of the coast. But those who fish in the neighborhood have often heard strange noises there, and lights have been seen about the wood at night. And an old fellow in a red cap has been seen at the windows more than once, which people take to be the ghost of the body that was buried there. Once upon a time three soldiers took shelter in the building for the night, and rummaged it from top to bottom, when they found old Father Redcap astride of a cider-barrel in the cellar, with a jug in one hand and a goblet in the other.  Here, the half-pay officer, who was growing very muzzy and sleepy, and nodding over his liquor, with half-extinguished eye, suddenly gleamed up like an expiring rush-light. "'That's all humbug,' said he, as Peachy finished his last story. "'Well, I don't vouch for the truth of it myself,' said Peachy Praw, though all the world knows that there's something strange about the house and grounds. But as to the story of Mud Sam, I believe it just as well as if it had happened to myself. The deep interest taken in this conversation by the company had made them unconscious of the uproar that prevailed abroad, among the elements, when suddenly they were all electrified by a tremendous clap of thunder. A lumbering crash followed instantaneously that made the building shake to its foundation. All started from their seats, imagining at the shock of an earthquake, or that old father Redcap was coming among them in all his terrors. They listened for a moment, but only heard the rain pelting against the windows, and the wind howling among the trees.  In a jargon but half intelligible, he announced that the kitchen chimney had been struck with lightning. A sullen pause of the storm which now arose in sunken gusts produced a momentary stillness. In this interval the report of a musket was heard and a long shout, almost like a yell resounded from the shore. Everyone crowded to the window. Another musket shot was heard, and another long shout that mingled wildly with a rising blast of wind. It seemed as if the cry came from the bosom of the waters, for though incessant flashes of lightning spread a light about the shore, no one was to be seen. Suddenly the window of the room overhead was opened, and a loud hellu uttered by the mysterious stranger. Several hailings passed from one party to the other, but in the language which none of the company in the bar room could understand. And presently they heard the window closed, and a great noise overhead as if all the furniture were pulled and hauled about the room. The negro servant was summoned, and shortly after it was seen assisting the veteran to lug the ponderous sea-chest downstairs. The landlord was in amazement. What? You're not going on the water in such a storm. Storm? said the other scornfully. Do you call such a sputter of weather a storm? You'll get drenched to the skin. You'll catch your death, said Peachy Prawl, affectionately. Thunder and lightning exclaimed the merman, don't preach about weather to a man that has cruised on whirlwinds and tornadoes. The obsequious Peachy was again struck dumb. The voice from the water was again heard, and a tone of impatience. The bystanders stared with redoubled awe at this man of storms, which seemed to have come up out of the deep and to be called back to it again. As, with the assistance of the negro, he slowly bore his ponderous sea-chest towards the shore. They eyed it with a superstitious feeling, half doubting whether he were not really about to embark upon it, and launch forth upon the wild waves. They followed him at a distance with a lantern. Douse the light! were the hoarse voice from the water. No one wants light here. Thunder and lightning exclaimed the veteran, back to the house with you! Wolfert and his companions shrunk back into smay. Still their curiosity would not allow them entirely to withdraw. A long sheet of lightning now flickered across the waves, and discovered a boat, filled with men, as under a rocky point, rising and sinking with the heavy surges, and swashing the water at every heave. It was with difficulty held to the rocks by a boat-hook, but the current rushed furiously round the point. The veteran hoisted one end of the lumbering sea-chest on the gun- whale of the boat. He seized the handle at the other end to lift it in, when the motion propelled the boat from the shore. The chest slipped off from the gun- whale, sunk into the waves, and pulled the veteran headlong after it. A loud shriek was uttered by all on shore, and a volley of exhirations by those on board, but boat and men were hurried away by the rushing swiftness of the tide. A pitchy darkness succeeded. Wolfert Webber, indeed, fancied that he distinguished a cry for help, and that he beheld the downing man, and that he beheld the drowning man beckoning for assistance. The wind and lightning again gleamed along the water, always drear and void, and either man nor boat was to be seen. Wailing but the dashing and weltering of the waves as they hurried past. The company returned to the tavern, for they could not leave it before the storm should subside. They resumed their seats and gazed on each other with dismay. The whole transaction had not occupied five minutes, and not a dozen words had been spoken. When they looked at the oaken chair they could scarcely realize the fact that the strange being who had so lately tended to it full of life and her killian vigor shall already be a corpse. There was the very glass he had just drunk from. There lay the ashes from the pipe which he had smoked, as it were with his last breath, as the worthy burgers pondered on these things. They felt a terrible conviction of the uncertainty of human existence, and each felt as if the ground on which he stood was rendered less stable by this awful example. As, however, the most of the company were possessed of that valuable philosophy, which enables a man to bear up with fortitude against the misfortunes of his neighbors, he soon managed to console themselves for the tragic end of the veteran. The landlord was happy that the poor dear man had paid his reckoning before he went. He came in the storm, and he went in the storm. He came in the night, and he went into the night. He came nobody knows from whence, and he has gone nobody knows where. For ought I know he has gone to see once more on his chest, and may land to bother some people on the other side of the world. There was a thousand pities, added the landlord, if he has gone to Davy Jones, that he had not left a sea-chest behind him. The sea-chest? St. Nicholas preserve us, said Peachy Praw, and not have had that sea-chest in the house for any money. A warrant he had come racketing after at night, and making a haunted house of the inn. And as to what's going to see on his chest, I recollect what happened to skipper Ander Donk's ship on his voyage from Amsterdam. The Bosun died during a storm, so they wrapped him up in a sheet, and put him in his own sea-chest, and threw him overboard. But they neglected in their hurry scurry to say prayers over him, and the storm raged and roared louder than ever, and they saw the dead man seated in his chest, with his shroud for a sail, coming hard after the ship. And the sea breaking before him in great sprays like fire, and there they kept scutting, day after day, and night after night, expecting every moment to go to wreck. And every night they saw the dead Bosun in his sea-chest, trying to get up with them. And they heard his whistle above the blast of wind, and he seemed to send great seas, mountain high after them, that would have swamped the ship if they had not put up the deadlights. And so it went on till they lost sight of him in the fogs of Newfoundland, and supposed he'd veered ship and stood for dead man's isle, so much for bearing a man at sea, without saying prayers over him. The thunder-gust which had hitherto detained the company was now at an end. Cuckoo clock in the hall struck midnight. Everyone pressed to depart, for seldom was such a late hour tress passed on by these quiet burgers. As they sallied forth they found the heavens once more serene. The storm which had lately obscured them had rolled away, and they piled up in fleecy masses on the horizon, lighted up by the bright crescent of the moon, which looked like a silver lamp hung up in a palace of clouds. The dismal occurrence of the night, and the dismal narrations they had made, had left a superstitious feeling on every mind. They cast a fearful glance at the spot, for the buccaneer had disappeared, almost expecting to see him sailing on his chest in the cool moonshine. The trembling rays glittered along the waters, but all was placid, and the current dimpled over the spot where he had gone down. The party huddled together in a little crowd, as they repaired homewards, particularly when they passed a lonely field where a man had been murdered, and he who had furthest to go had to complete his journey alone, though a veteran sextant and accustomed one would think to ghosts and goblins, yet went a long way round, rather than pass by his own church-yard. Wilford Webber had now carried home a fresh stock of stories and notions to ruminate upon. His mind was all of a whirl of these free-booting tales, and then these accounts of pots of money and Spanish treasures, buried here and there and everywhere about the rocks and bays of the wild shore, made him almost dizzy. Blessed St. Nicholas, ejaculated he half aloud, is it not possible to come upon one of these golden hordes, and so make one self-rich in a twinkling? How hard that I must go on, delving and delving, day in and day out, merely to make a morsel of bread, when one lucky stroke of a spade, might enable me to ride in my carriage for the rest of my life. End of CHAPTER XXXVI. As he turned over in his thoughts all that he had been told of the singular adventure of the black fisherman, his imagination gave a totally different complexion to the tale. He saw in the gang of red-caps nothing but a crew of pirates burying their spoils, and his cupidity was once more awakened by the possibility of at length getting on the traces of some of this lurking wealth. Indeed his infected fancy tinged everything with gold. He felt like the greedy inhabitant of Baghdad, when his eye had been greased with the magic ointment of the dervice, that gave him to see all the treasures of the earth. Caskets of buried jewels, chests of ingots, bags of outlandish coins, seemed to court him from their concealments, and supplicate him to relieve them from their untimely graves. On making private inquiries about the grounds said to be haunted by Father Redcap, he was more and more confirmed in his surmise. He learned that the place had several times been visited by experienced money-diggers, who had heard Mud Sam's story, though none of them had met with success. On the contrary, they had always been dogged with ill luck of some kind or other, and consequence, as Wolford concluded, that they're not going to work at the proper time, and with the proper ceremonials. The last attempt had been made by Cobas Quackenbus, who dug for a whole night, and met with incredible difficulty, for as fast as he threw one shovelful of earth out of the hole, two were thrown in by invisible hands. He succeeded so far, however, as to uncover an iron chest, when there was a terrible roaring and ramping and raging of uncouth figures about the hole, and at length a shower of blows, dealt by invisible cudgels, that fairly belabored him off the forbidden ground. This Cobas Quackenbus had declared on his death-bed, so that there could not be any doubt of it. He was a man that had devoted many years of his life to money digging, and that was thought would have ultimately succeeded had he not died suddenly of a brain fever in the alms-house. While Fort Weber was now in a worry of trepidation and impatience, fearful lest some rival adventurer should get a sense of the buried gold, he determined privately to seek out the Negro fisherman, and get him to serve as guide to the place where he had witnessed the mysterious scene of interment. Sam was easily found, for he was one of those habitual beings that live about a neighborhood, until they wear themselves a place in the public mind, and become, in a manner, public directors. There was not an unlucky urchin about the town that did not know mud Sam the fisherman, and think that he had a right to play his tricks upon the old Negro. Sam was an amphibious kind of animal, something more of a fish than a man. He had led the life of an otter for more than half a century, about the shores of the bay, and the fishing grounds of the sound. He passed a greater part of his time on and in the water, nearly about Hell Gate, and might have been taken in bad weather, for one of the hobgoblins that used to hot that straight. There would he be seen, at all times, and in all weathers, sometimes in his skiff, anchored among the eddies, or prowling like a shark about some wreck, where the fish are supposed to be most abundant, sometimes seated on a rock from hour to hour, looming through mist and drizzle, like a solitary heron watching for its prey.  And it was even affirmed that he knew all the fish in the river by their Christian names. Wolford found him at his cabin, which was not much larger than a tolerable dog-house. It was rudely constructed to fragments of wrecks and driftwood, and built on the rocky shore, at the foot of the old fort, just about what at present forms the point of the battery. A most ancient and fish-like smell pervaded the place. Wars, paddles, and fishing-rods were leaning against the wall of the fort. A net was spread on the sands to dry. A skiff was drawn up on the beach, and at the door of his cabin lay Mud Sam himself, indulging in a true Negro's luxury, sleeping in the sunshine.  He perfectly recollected the circumstances, however, for he had often been called upon to relate them, though in his version of the story he differed in many points from peachy-praw, as is not unfrequently the case with authentic historians. As to the subsequent researches of many diggers, Sam knew nothing about them. They were matters quite out of his lying. Neither did the cautious Wilfrid character disturb his thoughts on that point. His only wish was to secure the old fisherman as a pilot to the spot, and this was readily affected. The long time that had intervened, since his nocturnal adventure, had effaced all Sam's awe of the place, and the promise of a trifling reward roused him at once from his sleep and his sunshine. The tide was adverse to making the expedition by water, and Wilfrid was too impatient to get to the land of promise, to wait for its turning. They set off, therefore, by land. A walk of four or five miles brought them to the edge of a wood, which at that time covered the greater part of the eastern side of the island. It was just beyond the pleasant region of Bloemondale. Here they struck into a long line, straggling among trees and bushes, very much overgrown with weeds and maline stalks as if but seldom used, and so completely overshadowed as to enjoy but a kind of twilight. Wild vines entangled the trees and franted in their faces. Brambles and briars caught their clothes as they passed. The garter snake glided across their path, the spotted toad hopped and waddled before them, and the restless catbird muted at them from every thicket. Wilfrid would ever have been deeply read in romantic legend. He might have fancied himself entering upon forbidden, enchanted ground, or that these were some of the guardians set to keep a watch upon buried treasure. As it was, the loneliness of the place and the wild stories connected with it had their effect upon his mind. On reaching the lower end of the lane they found themselves near the shore of the sound, and a kind of amphitheater, surrounded by forest tree. The area had once been a grass plot, but was now shagged with briars and rank-weeds.  The current of the sound rushed along just below it, with wildly grown trees drooping their branches into its waves. Wilfrid had not a doubt that this was the haunted house of Father Redcap, and called to mind the story of Peachy-Prah. The evening was approaching, and the light falling dubiously among these places gave a melancholy tone to the scene, while calculated to foster any lurking feeling of awe or superstition. The Nighthawk, wailing about in the highest regions of the air, emitted his peevish, boating cry. The woodpecker gave a lonely tap, now and then, on some hollow tree, and the firebird, footnote, orchard, oriole, and a footnote, as he streamed by them with his deep red plumage, seemed like some genius flitting about this region of mystery. It now came to an enclosure that had once been a garden. It extended along the foot of a rocky ridge, but was little better than a wilderness of weeds, with here and there a matted rose-bush, or a peach or plum tree, grown wild and ragged, and covered with moss. At the lower end of the garden they passed a kind of vault on the side of the bank, facing the water. It had the look of a root-house. The door, though decayed, was still strong. It appeared to have been recently patched up. Wilfrid pushed it open, and gave a harsh grating upon its hinges, and striking against something like a box, a rattling sound ensued, and a skull rolled on the floor. Wilfrid drew back shuttering, but was reassured on being informed by Sam that this was a family vault belonging to one of the old Dutch families that owned this estate, an assertion which is corroborated by the sight of coffins of various sizes piled within. Sam had been familiar with all these scenes when a boy, and now knew that he could not be far from the place of which they were in quest. They now made their way to the water's edge, scrambling along ledges of rocks, and having often to hold by shrubs and grapevines, to avoid slipping into the deep and hurried stream. At length they came to a small cove, or rather indent of the shore. It was protected by steep rocks and overshadowed by a thick cops of oaks and chestnuts, so as to be sheltered and almost concealed. The beach sloped gradually within the cove, but the current swept deep and black and rapid along its jutting points. Sam paused, raised his remnant of a hat, and scratched his grizzled paw for a moment, as he regarded this nook. Then suddenly clapping his hands, he stepped exultingly forward and pointing to a large iron ring, stapled firmly in the rock, just where a broad shell of stone furnished a commodious landing-place. It was the very spot where the redcaps had landed. This had changed the more perishable features of the scene, but rock and iron yielded slowly to the influence of time. On looking more narrowly, Wolford remarked three crosses cut in the rock just above the ring, which had no doubt some mysterious signification. Old Sam not readily recognized the overhanging rock under which his skiff had been sheltered during the thunder-gust. To follow up the course which the midnight gang had taken, however, was a harder task. His mind had been so much taken up on that fateful occasion by the persons of the drama as to pay but little attention to the scenes, and places looked different by night and day. After wandering about for some time, however, they came to an opening among the trees, which Sam thought resembled the place. There was a ledge of rock of moderate height, like a wall, on one side, which Sam thought might be the very ridge on which he overlooked the diggers. Wolford examined it narrowly, and at length described three crosses similar to those above the iron ring, cut deeply into the face of the rock, but nearly obliterated by the moss that had grown on them. His heart leaped with joy, for he doubted not, but they were the private marks of the buccaneers, to denote the places where their treasure lay buried. All now that remained was to ascertain the precise spot. For otherwise you might dig at random without coming upon the spoil, and he has already had enough of such profitless labor. Here, however, Sam was perfectly at a loss, and indeed, perplexed him by a variety of opinions. For his recollections were all confused. Sometimes he declared it must have been at the foot of a mulberry tree hard by, that it was just beside a great white stone, that it must have been under a small green knoll, a short distance from the ledge of rock, until at length Wolford became as bewildered as himself. The shadows of evening were now spreading themselves over the woods, and rock and tree began to mingle together. It was evidently too late to attempt anything farther at present, and indeed Wolford had come unprepared with emblemans to prosecute his researches. Satisfied therefore with having ascertained the place, he took note of all of its landmarks, that he might recognize it again, and set out on his return homeward, resolved to prosecute this golden enterprise without delay. The leading anxiety which had hitherto absorbed every feeling, being now in some measure appeased, fancy began to wander and to conjure up a thousand shapes and tameras as he returned through this haunted region. Pirates hanging in chains seemed to swing on every tree, and he almost expected to see some Spanish dawn, with his throat cut from ear to ear, writhing slowly out of the ground, shaking the ghost of a money bag. Their way back lay through the desolate garden, and Wolford's nerves had arrived at so sensitive a state that the flitting of a bird, the rustling of a leaf, or the falling of a nut was enough to startle him. As they entered the confines of the garden, they caught sight of a figure at a distance, advancing slowly up one of the walks and bending under the weight of a burden. They paused and regarded him attentively. He wore what appeared debatable in cap, and, still more alarming, of a most sanguinary red. The figure moved slowly on, ascended the bank, and stopped at the very door of the sepulchral vault, just before entering he looked around. What was the horror of Wolford when he recognized the grisly visage of the drowned buccaneer? He uttered an ejaculation of horror. The figure slowly raised his iron fist, and shook it with a terrible menace. Wolford did not pause to see more, but hurried off as fast as his legs could carry him, and wore what Sam's slow in following at his heels, having all his ancient terrors revived. Away then did they scramble, through bush and break, horribly frightened at every ramble that tagged at their skirts, or did they pause to breathe until they had blundered their way through this perilous wood, and had fairly reached the high road to the city. Several days elapsed before Wolford could some encourage enough to prosecute the enterprise. So much had he been dismayed by the apparition, or the living dead, of the grisly buccaneer. In the meantime, what a conflict of mind did he suffer! He neglected all his concerns, was moody and restless all day, lost his appetite, wandered in his thoughts and words, and admitted a thousand blunders. His rest was broken, and when he fell asleep, the nightmare and shape of a huge money-bag sat squatted upon his breast. He babbled about incalculable sums, fancied himself engaged in money-digging, through the bed-clothes right and left, and the idea that he was shoveling among the dirt, groped under the bed in quest of the treasure, and lugged forth, as he supposed, an inestimable pot of gold. Dame Weber and her daughter were in despair at what they conceived the returning touch of insanity. There were two family oracles, one or other of which Dutch housewives consult in all cases of great doubt and perplexity, the Dominique and the Doctor. In the present instance they repaired to the Doctor. There was at that time a little dark, moldy man of medicine, famous among the old wives of the Manhattanos for his skill, not only in the healing art, but in all matters of strange and mysterious nature. His name was Doctor Nipperhausen, but he was more commonly known by the appellation of the High German Doctor. FOOT NOTE. The same, no doubt, of whom mention is made in the history of Dolf Heiliger. END OF FOOT NOTE. To him did the poor women repair for counsel and assistance, patching the mental vagaries of Wilfrid Weber.  The Doctor listened to their statement of the symptoms of Wilfrid's malady with profound attention, but when they came to mention his raving about buried money, a little man pricked up his ears. Alas, poor women, they little knew the aid they had called in. Doctor Nipperhausen had been half his life engaged in seeking the shortcuts to fortune, in quest of which so many a long lifetime is wasted. He had passed some years of his youth in the Hearts Mountains of Germany, and had derived much valuable instruction from the miners, touching the mode of seeking treasure buried in the earth. He had prosecuted his studies also, under a traveling sage, who united all the mysteries of medicine with magic and like our domain. His mind, therefore, had become stored with all kinds of mystic lore. He had dabbled a little in astrology, alchemy, and divination, knew how to detect stolen money, and to tell where springs of water lay hidden. In a word, by the dark nature of his knowledge, he had acquired the name of the High German Doctor, which is pretty nearly equivalent to that of Necromancer. The Doctor had often heard rumors of treasure being buried in various parts of the island, and had long been anxious to get on the traces of it. No sooner were Wilfrid's waking and sleeping vagaries confided to him. He beheld on them the confirmed symptoms of a case of money digging, and lost no time in probing it to the bottom. Wilfrid had long been sorely depressed in mind by the golden secret, and as a family physician, as a kind of father confessor, he was glad of the opportunity of unburdening himself. So far from curing, the Doctor caught the malady from his patient. Circumstances unfolded to him awaken all his acupidity. He had not a doubt of money being buried somewhere in the neighborhood of the mysterious crosses, and offered to join Wilfrid in a search. He informed him that much secrecy and caution must be observed in enterprises of the kind. The money is only to be digged for at night. The certain forms and ceremonies, the burning of drugs, the repeating of mystic words, and above all, that the seekers must be provided with a divine rod, and that the wonderful property of pointing to the very spot on the surface of the earth, under which treasure lay hidden. As the Doctor had given much of his mind to these matters, he charged himself with all the necessary preparations, and as the quarter of the moon was propitious, he undertook to have the divine rod ready by a certain night. Footnote The following note was found appended to this paper in the handwriting of Mr. Nickerbocker. There has been much written against the divine rod by those light minds who were ever ready to scoff at the mysteries of nature. But I have fully joined with Dr. Nipperhausen, giving it my faith. I shall not insist upon its efficacy in discovering the concealment of stolen goods, the boundary stones of fields, the traces of robbers and murderers, or even the existence of subterraneous springs and streams of water, albeit I think these properties not easily to be discredited. But if its potency in discovering vain of precious metal, and hidden sums of money and jewels, I have not to least doubt. Some said that the rod turned only in the hands of persons who had been born in particular months of the year. Hence astrologers had recourse to planetary influence when they would procure a talisman. Others declared that the properties of the rod were either an effective chance, or the fraud of the holder, or the work of the devil. Thus saith the Reverend Father Gaspar D'Shat in his Treatise on Magic. Propter hook et similia argumenta odacator ego, pronunzio vim conversum, virgulis bifucartis neguquam naturalisum ese, sed velcasa vel fraude, virgulam tractantis vel op debali, et cetera. Georgius agracula also was of opinion that there was a mere delusion of the devil to invigil the avaricious and unwary into his clutches. And in his Treatise, Deire Metallica lays particular stress on the mysterious words pronounced by those persons who employ the divining rod during his time. But I make not a doubt that the divining rod is one of those secrets of natural magic, the mystery of which is to be explained by the sympathies existing between physical things operative upon by the planets and rendered efficacious by the strong faith of the individual, that the divining rod be properly gathered at the proper time of the moon, cut into the proper form, used for the necessary ceremonies, and with the perfect faith in its efficacy. And I confidently recommend it to my fellow citizens, as an infallible means of discovering the various places on the island of the Minhatos, where treasure hath been buried in the Olden Times. DK. END OF FOOTNOAT Wolford's heart leaped with joy, having met with so learned and able a coagitor. Everything went on secretly, but swimmingly. The doctor had many consultations with his patients, and the good women of the household lauded the comforting effect of his visits. In the meantime, the wonderful divining rod, that great key to nature's secrets, was duly prepared. The doctor had thumbed over all his books of knowledge for the occasion, and Mud Sam was engaged to take them in his skiff to the scene of enterprise, to work with spade and pickaxe, and unearthing the treasure, and to freight his bark with the weighty spoils they were certain of finding. END OF CHAPTER 37 THE APPOINTED NIGHT ARRIVED For this perilous undertaking, before Wolford left his home, he counseled his wife and daughter to go to bed, and feel no alarm if he should not return during the night. Like reasonable women on being told not to feel alarm, they fell immediately into a panic. They saw it once by his manner that something unusual was in agitation. All their fears about the unsettled state of his mind were aroused with tenfold force. They hung about him in treating him not to expose himself to the night air, but all in vain. When Wolford was once mounted on his hobby, it was no easy matter to get him out of the saddle. It was a clear star-light night when he issued out of the portal of the Weber Palace. He wore a large napped hat tied under the chin with a handkerchief of his daughters, to secure him from the night damp, while Dame Weber threw her long red cloak about his shoulders, and fastened it round his neck. The doctor had been no less carefully armed and accoutred by his housekeeper, the vigilance-frau Ilse, and sallied forth in his gamblet robe by way of sertaut, his black velvet cap under his cocked hat, a thick clasp book under his arm, a basket of drugs and dried herbs in one hand, and in the other the miraculous rod of divination. The great church clock struck ten as Wolford and the doctor passed by the churchyard, and the watchman brawl and his horse voice long and doleful, all as well. A deep sleep had already fallen upon his primitive little burg, and nothing disturbed his awful silence, except now and then the bark of some prolificate night-walking dog, or the serenade of some romantic cat. It is true Wolford fancied more than once that he heard the sound of a stealthy footfall at a distance behind them, but it might have been merely the echo of their own steps echoing along the quiet streets. He thought also at one time they saw a tall figure skulking after them, stopping when they stopped, and moving on as they proceeded, but the dim and uncertain lamp-light through such vague gleams and shadows that this might all have been mere fancy.  A pickaxe and spade were lying in the bottom of the boat, with a dark lantern, and a stone jug of good Dutch courage, in which Anna Sam, no doubt, put even more faith than Dr. Nipperhausen in his drugs. Thus then did these three worthies embark in their cockleshell of a skiff upon this nocturnal expedition, with a wisdom in Valor equaled only by the three wise men of Gotham, who went to see in a bowl. The tide was rising, and running rapidly up the sound. The current wore them along, almost without the aid of an oar. The profile of the town lay all in shadow. Here and there a light feebly glimmered from some sick chamber, or from the cabin window some vessel and anchor in the stream. Not a cloud obscured the deep starry firmament, the lights of which weirred on the surface of the placid river, and a shooting meteor streaking its pale course in the very direction they were taking, was interpreted by the doctor into a most propitious omen. In a little while they glided by the point of Corleire's hook, with the rural inn which had been the scene of such night adventures. The family had retired to rest, and the house was dark and still. Wolford felt a chill pass over him as they passed the point where the buccaneer had disappeared. He pointed it out to Dr. Nipperhausen. While regarding it, they thought they saw a boat actually lurking at the very place. But the shore cast such a shadow over the border of the water that they could discern nothing distinctly. They had not proceeded far when they heard the low sound of distant oars, as if cautiously pulled. Sam plied his oars with redoubled vigor, and knowing all the eddies and currents of the stream soon left their followers, if such they were, far astern. In a little while they stretched across Turtle Bay and Kipps Bay, and shrouded themselves in the deep shadows of the Manhattan shore, and glided swiftly along, secure from observation. At length Sam shot his skiff into a little cove, darkly embowered by trees, and made it fast to the well-known iron ring. They now landed, and lighting the lantern, gathered their various implements, and proceeded slowly through the bushes. Every sound startled them, even that of their footsteps, among the dry leaves, and the hooting of a screech owl. From the shattered chimney of Father Redcap's ruin made their blood run cold. And spite of all Wolford's caution in taking note of the landmarks, it was some time before they could find the open place among the trees, where the treasure was supposed to be buried. At length they came to the ledge of rock, and on examining its surface by the aid of the lantern, Wolford recognized the three mystic crosses. Their hearts beat quick, for the momentous trial was at hand. That was to determine their hopes. The lantern was now held by Wolford Webber, while the doctor produced the dividing rod. It was a forked twig, one end of which was grasped firmly in each hand, while the center, forming the stem, pointed perpendicularly upwards. The doctor moved this wand about, within a certain distance of the earth, from place to place. But for some time, without any effect, while Wolford kept the light of the lantern turned full upon it, and watched it with the most breathless interest. At length the rod began slowly to turn. The doctor grasped it with greater earnestness, his hand trembling with the agitation of his mind. The wand continued slowly to turn, till at length the stem had reversed its position, and pointed perpendicularly downward, and remained pointing to one spot, as fixedly as the needle to the pole. "'This is the spot!' said the doctor, in an almost inaudible tone. Wolford's heart was in his throat. "'Shall I dig?' said Sam, grasping the spade. "'What was to say?' "'No,' replied the little doctor hastily. He now ordered his companions to keep close by him, and to maintain the most inflexible silence. That certain precautions must be taken, and ceremonies used, to prevent the evil spirits which keep about buried treasure from doing them any harm. The doctor then drew a circle around the place, and often included the whole party. He next gathered dried twigs and leaves, and made a fire, upon which he threw certain drugs and dried herbs which he had brought in his basket.  Dr. Nipperhausen then unclasped the volume which he had brought under his arm, which was printed in red and black characters in German text. But Wolford held the lantern, the doctor, but the aid of his spectacles, read off several forms of conjuration in Latin and German. He then ordered Sam to seize the pickaxe and proceed to work. The close-bound soil gave obstinate signs of not having been disturbed for many a year. After having picked his way through the surface, Sam came to a bed of sand and gravel, which he threw briskly to the right and left with a spade. "'Hark!' said Wolford, who fancied he had heard a trampling among the dry leaves and a wrestling through the bushes. Sam paused for a moment, and they listened. No footstep was near. The bat flitted about them in silence. A bird roused from its nest by the light which cleared up among the trees, flew circling about the flame. In the profound stillness of the woodland it could distinguish the current rippling along the rocky shore, and the distant murmuring and roaring of Hell Gate. Sam continued his labours, and had already digged a considerable hole. The doctor stood on the edge, reading formula every now and then from the black-letter volume, or throwing more drugs and herbs upon the fire, while Wolford bent anxiously over the pit, watching every stroke of the spade. Anyone witnessing the scene, thus strangely lighted up by fire, lantern, and the reflection of Wolford's red mantle, made a mistake in the little doctor for some foul magician, busyed in his incantations, and the grizzled head Sam had some swore to goblin, obedient to his commands. At length the spade of the fisherman struck upon something that sounded hollow. The sound vibrated the Wolford's heart. He struck his spade again. "'Tis a chest,' said Sam. "'Full of gold, oh warrant it!' cried Wolford, clasping his hands with rapture. Scarcely ahead he uttered the words, when a sound from overhead caught his ear. He cast up his eyes and low, by the expiring light of the fire he beheld, just over the disk of the rock, but appeared to be the grim visage of the drowned buccaneer, grinning hideously down upon him. Wolford gave a loud cry, and let fall the lantern. His panic communicated itself to his companions. The negro leaped out of the hole. The doctor dropped his book and basket, and began to pray in German. All was horror and confusion. The fire was scattered about. The lantern extinguished. In their hurry scurry they ran against and confounded one another. They fancied the legion of hobgoblins that loose upon them, and they saw by the fitful gleams of the scattered embers strange figures in red caps, gibbering and ramping around them. The doctor ran one way, wed Sam another, and Wolford made for the water side. As he plunged struggling onwards through bush and break, he heard the tread of someone in pursuit. He scrambled frantically forward. The footsteps gained upon him. He thought himself grasped by his cloak, and suddenly his pursuer was attacked in turn. A fierce fight and struggle ensued. A pistol was discharged that lit up rock and bush for a period, and showed two figures grappling together. All was then darker than ever. The contest continued. The combatants clenched each other and panted and groaned and rolled among the rocks. There was snarling and growling as ever occur, mingled with curses in which Wolford fancied he could recognize the voice of the buccaneer. He would faint and fled, but he was on the brink of a precipice, and could go no farther. Again the parties were on their feet. Again there was a tugging and struggling, as if strength alone could decide the combat, until one was precipitated from the brow of the cliff and set headlong into the deep stream that whirled below. Wolford heard the plunge and the kind of strangling, bubbling murmur, but the darkness of the night hit everything from view, and the swiftness of the current swept everything instantly out of hearing. One of the combatants was disposed of, but whether friend or foe Wolford could not tell, nor whether they might not both be foes. He heard the survivor approach and his terror revived. He saw, with a profile of the rocks rose against the horizon, a human form advancing. He could not be mistaken, it must be the buccaneer. Wither should he fly. A precipice was on one side, a murderer on the other. The enemy approached. He was close at hand. Wolford attempted to let himself down the face of the cliff. His cloak caught on a thorn that grew on the edge. He was jerked from off his feet and held dangling in the air, left choked by the string with which his careful wife had fastened the garment round his neck. Wolford thought his last moment had arrived. Already had he committed his soul to St. Nicholas. When the string broke and he tumbled down the bank, bumping from rock to rock and bush to bush, and leaving the red cloak fluttering like a bloody banner in the air. It was a long while before Wolford came to himself. When he opened his eyes, the ruddy streaks of the morning were already shooting up the sky. He found himself lying in the bottom of a boat, grievously battered. He tended to sit up, but was too sore and stiff to move. A voice requested him in friendly accents to lie still. He turned his eyes toward the speaker. It was Dirk Waldron. He had dogged the party at the earnest request of Dame Webber and her daughter, who, with the laudable curiosity of their sex, had pried into the secret consultations of Wolford and the doctor. Dirk had been completely distanced in following the light skiff of the fisherman, and had just come in time to rescue the poor money digger from his pursuer. Thus ended this perilous enterprise. The doctor and Mud Sam severally found their way back to the Van Hathos, each having so dreadful a tale of peril to relate. As to poor Wolford, instead of returning in triumph, laden with bags of gold, he was born home on a shutter, followed by a rabble route of curious urchins. His wife and daughter saw the dismal pageant from a distance, and alarmed the neighborhood with their cries. They thought the poor man had suddenly settled the great dud of nature in one of his wayward moods. Finding him, however, still living, they had him conveyed speedily to bed, in a jewellery of old matrons of the neighborhood assembled to determine how he should be doctored. The whole town was in a buzz with the story of the money diggers. Many repaired to the scene of the previous night's adventures, but though they found the very place of the digging, they discovered nothing that compensated for their trouble. Some say they found the fragments of an oaken chest, and an iron pot lid, which savored strongly of hidden money, and that in the old family vault there were traces of holes and boxes. This is all very dubious. In fact, the secret of all this story has never to this day been discovered, whether any treasure was ever actually buried at that place, whether, if so, it was carried off at night by those who had buried it, or whether it still remains there under the guardianship of gnomes and spirits until it should be properly sought for, as all a matter of conjecture. For my part I inclined to the latter opinion, and make no doubt that great sums lie buried, both there and in many other parts of this island and its neighborhood, ever since the times of the Buccaneers and the Dutch colonists, and I would earnestly recommend the search after them to such of my fellow citizens as they're not engaged in any other speculations. There were many conjectures formed also as to who and what was the strange man of the seas, who had domineered over the little fraternity at Coralier's Hook for a time. Disappeared so strangely and reappeared so fearfully. Some supposed him a smuggler stationed at that place to assist his comrades in landing their goods among the rocky coves of the island. Others that he was a Buccaneer. One of the ancient comrades, either of kid or bradish, returned to convey away treasures formerly hidden in the vicinity. The only circumstance that throws anything like a vague light over this mysterious matter is a report that prevailed of a strange, foreign-built shellop with a look of a picarune having been seen hovering about the sound for several days without landing or reporting herself, though boats were seen going to and from her at night, and that she was seen standing out of the mouth of the harbor in the gray of the dawn after the catastrophe of the money-diggers. I must not omit to mention another report, also which I confess is rather apocryphal of the Buccaneer, who was supposed to have been drowned. Being seen before daybreak, with a lantern in his hand, seated astride his great sea-chest and sailing through Hell-gate, which just then began to roar and bellow with redoubled fury, while all the gossip-world was thus filled with talk and rumor, poor Wolford lay sick and sorrowful in his bed, bruised in body and surely beaten down in mind. His wife and daughter did all they could to bind up his wounds, both corporal and spiritual. The good old dame never stirred from his bedside, where she sat knitting, from morning till night, while his daughter busied herself about him with the fondest care. Nor did they lack assistance from abroad. Whatever may be said of the desertions of friends in distress, they had no complaint of the kind to make. Not an old wife of the neighborhood, but a bed in her work to crowd to the mansion of Wolford Webber, inquire after his health and the particulars of his story. Not one came were over that her little Pippkin of Penny-royal, Sage, Bomb, or other herb-tea, delighted at an opportunity of signalizing her kindness and her doctorship. But drenchings did not the poor Wolford undergo, and all in vain. It was a moving sight to behold him, wasting away, day by day, growing thinner and thinner, and gaslier and gaslier, and staring the throughful visage from under an old patchwork counterpane upon a jewellery of matrons kindly assembled to sigh and groan and look unhappy around him. Dirk Waldron was the only being that seemed to shed a ray of sunshine into this house, a morning. He came in with cheery look and manly spirit, and tried to reanimate the expiring heart of the poor money-digger. But it was all in vain. Wolford was completely done over. If anything was wanting to complete his despair, it was a notice served upon him in the midst of his distress, that the corporation were about to run a new street through the very center of his cabbage garden. He saw nothing before him but poverty and ruin.  His eyes filled with tears as they filed the dutiful army out of the room one morning. Dirk Waldron was seated beside him. Dirk grasped his hand, pointed after his daughter, and for the first time since his illness broke the silence he had maintained.  "'I'll take care of her.' Wolford looked up in the face of the cheery, strapping youngster, and saw there was none better able to take care of a woman. "'Enough,' said he, she is yours, and I'll fetch me a lawyer. Let me make my will and die.' The lawyer was brought, a dapper, bustling, round-headed little man, roar back, or roll-buck, as it was pronounced, by name. At the sight of him the women broke into loud lamentations, for they looked upon the signing of a will, as the signing of a death warrant. Wolford made a feeble motion for them to be silent. For Amy buried her face and her grief in the bed-curtain. Dame Weber resumed her knitting to hide her distress, which betrayed itself, however, and a polluted tear that trickled silently down and hung at the end of her peeked nose, while the cat, the only unconcerned member of the family, played with the good dame's ball of worsted as it rolled about the floor. Wolford lay on his back as night kept drawn over his forehead.  He begged the lawyer to be brief. He thought his end approaching, and he had no time to lose.  "'I give and bequeath,' said Wolford faintly. "'My small farm.' "'What's all?' exclaimed the lawyer. Wolford half-opened his eyes and looked upon the lawyer. "'Yes, all,' said he. "'What? All that great patch of land with cabbages and sun-flowers? Which the corporation is just going to run a main street through?' "'The same,' said Wolford, with a heavy sigh, and sinking back upon his pillow. "'I wish him joy that inherits it,' said the little lawyer, chuckling and rubbing his hands involuntarily.  "'That he'll be one of the richest men in the place,' cried little roll-buck. "'The expiring Wolford seemed to step back from the threshold of existence.  He raised himself in his bed, shoved back his red-worse-to-nightcap, and stared broadly at the lawyer. "'You don't say so,' exclaimed he. "'Faith, but I do,' rejoined the other. "'Why, when that great field and that piece of meadow came to be laid out in streets and cut up into snug building-lots, why, whoever owns them need not pull off his hat to the patron.' "'So you say?' cried Wolford, half thrusting one leg out of bed. "'Why, then I think I'll not make my will yet.' "'To the surprise of everybody, the dying man actually recovered. The vital spark which had glimmered faintly in the socket, you see fresh fuel from the oil of gladness, which the little lawyer poured into his soul, and once more burnt up into a flame. He gave psychic to the heart, yet who would revive the body of a spirit-broken man. In a few days Wolford left his room. In a few days more his table was covered with deeds, plans of streets and building-lots. Little Rollabuck was constantly with him, his right-hand man and advisor. And instead of making his will, assisted in the more agreeable task of making his fortune. In fact, Wolford Webber was one of those worthy Dutch burgers of the Manhattanos whose fortunes have been made in a manner in spite of themselves, who have tenaciously held on with their hereditary acres, raising turnips and cabbages about the skirts of the city, hardly able to make both ends meet until the corporation has cruelly driven streets through their abodes, and they have suddenly awakened out of a lethargy and to their astonishment found themselves rich men. Before many months had elapsed a great bustling street passed through the very center of the Webber Garden, just where Wolford had dreamed of finding a treasure. His golden dream was accomplished. He did indeed find an unlooked foresource of wealth, for when his paternal lands were distributed into building-lots and rented out to save tenants, instead of producing a paltry crop of cabbages they returned him an abundant crop of rents. In so much that on quarter-day it was a goodly sight to see his tenants wrapping at his door, from morning to night, each with a little round billy bag of money, the golden produce of the soil. The ancient mansion of his forefathers was still kept up, but instead of being a little yellow-fronted Dutch house in a garden, it now stood boldly in the middle of a street, the grand house of the neighborhood. Her Wolford enlarged it with a wing on each side, and a cupola or tea-room on top, where you might climb up and smoke his pipe in hot weather. And in the course of time the whole mansion was overrun by the chubby-faced progeny of Amy Weber and Dirk Waldron. As Wolford waxed old and rich and corpulent, he also set up a great gingerbread-colored carriage, drawn by a pair of black Flanders' mares, with tails that swept the ground. And to commemorate the origin of his greatness, he had for a crest a full-blown cabbage painted on the panels, with a pithy motto, all as cloth, that is to say, all head, meaning thereby that he had risen by sheer head work. To fill the measure of his greatness in the fullness of time, the renowned Ron Rapoli slept with his fathers, and Wolford Weber succeeded to the leather-bottomed arm-chair in the in-parlor at Corleers' Hook, where he long reigned, greatly honored, and respected, in so much that he was never known to tell a story without its being believed, nor to utter a joke without its being laughed at. End of CHAPTER XXXVIII.