He said no more that evening, but next day woke up in his wits, and
asked me to slip a hand under his pillow and take out what I found
there. Which I took out a piece of parchment. He said: "Coffin, I
am going to be as good as my word. That there which you hold in your
hand is a map of the Island of Mortallone, where the treasure lies.
I will tell you how I come by it.
"My home," he said, "was St. Mary's, in Newfoundland, which is but a
small harbour and a few wood houses gathered about a factory.
The factory belonged to a firm at Carbonear, and employed, one way
and another, all the people in the place, in number less than two
hundred. The women worked at the fish-curing, along with the
children and some old men, but the able-bodied men belonged mostly to
the Labrador fleet, or manned a two-three small vessels that made
regular voyages to the Island of St. Jago to fetch home salt for the
pickling. My mother, besides working at the factory, kept a
boarding-house for seamen. In this she was helped by my only sister,
a middle-aged woman and single. My mother was a widow. She kept her
house very respectable, but the business was slight, the town being
empty of men most of the year.
"In the autumn of 'ninety-eight, arriving home with salt as usual
from St. Jago, I found a stranger lodging in the house. He had come
over from Carbonear with a party of clerks, and had taken a fancy to
the place--or so he said; besides which, it had been recommended to
him for his health, which was delicate. He was a common-spoken man,
aged between fifty and sixty, and looked like a skipper that had
hauled ashore; but he never talked about the sea in my hearing, and
he never mixed with the few seamen who came to the house. He rented
a separate room and kept to it. His habits were simple enough, and
his manner very quiet and friendly, though he spoke as little as he
could help, unless to my sister. My mother liked him because he paid
his way and seemed content with whatever food was put before him.
The only thing he complained about was the cold.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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