“Rock be hanged!” shouted Dave, a moment later, as the unmistakable sound of metal striking metal reached their ears. “Tempest, it can’t be――it can’t be――” “Can’t it, though!” replied Tempest, joyously. “It’s a metal-bound box, or my name’s Joe Flagg. Now don’t get so excited. Wait a minute till we get it out.” Dave was excited, however――wildly excited. He and Tempest fell on their knees and tugged at the box, but its weight was considerable, and they could not lift it out until Jim gave them a hand. It was a small chest made of oak or some other hard wood, encircled with solid bands of iron which had almost rusted through in places. The woodwork was in a fair state of preservation. “It’s the treasure――it’s the treasure!” Dave sang out gleefully. “Well, if it isn’t, it ought to be,” said Tempest, trying in vain to prize off one of the metal bands with his shovel. “Jim, streak to the _Nautilus_ for an ax――a couple of axes――a dozen――before I burst!” The Kanaka shot across the water in the dory, and returned in a few minutes. Even with the aid of an ax it was not easy to burst the chest open, for there were hinges and a lock to force, beside the iron bands. At last, with a creak, the lid was lifted, and Dave and Tempest stared at the contents of the box, fascinated. Lying neatly stacked in rows were bars and bars of silvery-white metal which, in spite of their long burial in the sand, shone as brightly as when placed there years before by the man who had mined and molded them. Tempest laughed at the Kanaka’s comical expression of disappointment. He had evidently expected something much more exciting. Dave stooped and took one of the small bars in his hand with a curious thrill. [Illustration: Tempest laughed at the Kanaka’s comical expression of disappointment] “You don’t suppose it’s just――just lead or something like that?” he asked anxiously. “It’s frightfully heavy!” “It would be,” answered Tempest, striving to keep the excitement from his voice. “It’s platinum all right, and it’s worth a fortune, Dave.” “A fortune!” repeated the boy, gazing down in awe at the serried rows of silvery bars. “Yes, it must be, for it’s worth more than a hundred dollars an ounce. Tempest, we――we’re rich!” “_You_ are,” said Tempest. “All I’ll accept is that five thousand for my little farm in Carolina. Gee! I never saw anything that pleased me so much in all my life!” He weighed the bar in his hand. “There’s a good sixteen ounces in that, I fancy: maybe more,” he added. “Let’s see how many bars there are.” With trembling fingers they laid the metal out on the sand, counting as they did so. “Twenty-seven!” they said at last in chorus. “Over four hundred ounces, sure as you’re alive!” Tempest added. “I reckon it must be worth between forty and forty-five thousand dollars altogether, if it’s worth a cent!” “Goodness!” Dave exclaimed. “Enough to buy back my dad’s place ten times over.” * * * * *