“Yes, sir, for my years, I stay clever,” said Habakkuk, on one of these rare occasions. Smoking wisely, he pointed his weather-vane countenance toward the glow. “Can’t leave Old Mundungo alon’, but never teched Rum. Result is, spry and tough as linkumvity. Old-Hab they call me; but that’s jest to tell apart from Lazy-Hab. Now me, always fond o’ work; him, always talkin’ o’ luck and lookin’ for easy ways. Never could break that boy to harness. A hard-o’-hearin’ man, he is; but eyes like a bee. Always connivin’ round and spyin’ after truck. Spoilt a turnip-field, one time, diggin’ for gold.” The teamster chuckled, meditating. “Cap’n Kidd’s pirate money, once, he ’lowed ’twas hid somewheres along ar shore. To see him, those days, you’d thought the price o’ clams had ris’. And shortly afterwords, havin’ eyesight like a bee, the young fool found some kind o’ mound up into a patch o’ woods. Took spade, pick, and lantrun, and sneaked up there one night. Old Postmaster Quinn see his light, and bein’ always of a busy-brain, followed him after. Found Lazy-Hab over a dug hole, pryin’ open a chist full o’ stuff. “‘What ye doin’?’ shouts Quinn. ‘Come away from that!’ “Lazy-Hab, bein’ a hard-o’-hearin’ man, kep’ right on. So Quinn claps mouth to ear, and bellers ‘Small-pock!’ “Lazy-Hab give a jump like Sam Patch, and run, and never stopped for spade or lantrun. ’Twas that Portugee sailor’s kit, died o’ the small-pock up to Barry’s.” Again the wood-chopper laughed, quietly. “All one same,” he continued, growing serious, “that ain’t sayin’ the Old Sir didn’t bury no pirate-money round these parts.” He rose suddenly, nodding with an air of mystery. “Reminds me. Come along till I show ye.” Bundling himself warmly, and seizing the lantern, he led Miles outdoors, round the hut, through the whispering withered leaves of the stunted beeches, and up a steep rising ground. Wading thigh-deep, or scrambling over dry granite, they gained the rocky summit of a little hill. “I see it a fortni’t ago,” said Old-Hab. “Up here alon’. P’r’aps ’twon’t show to-night.” He pointed across the vast darkness of the valley. “Down there’s the river, and my finger’s ’bout on that bit o’ island opposite your place. Now from tide-water, she looks all solid fars and spruce, don’t she? But up here, daytimes, they show jest a ring-round, like, and a bald spot in the middle. Now, one night--” He bosomed the lantern under his sheepskin coat. In starlight, they faced a bitter wind, hearing only the whisper of the beeches and the distant bark of a fox. “Watch! Nothin’, is they? Well, p’r’aps--Hold on! See there!” Far off and far below, a point of light gleamed, winked, shone steady for some minutes, and was gone. “Jest like other time,” said Hab. “Now what d’ ye make o’ that?” Miles, wondering, could find no explanation.