“You seem to think it’s a joke,” I said; “but it tells where there’s buried treasure, that’s one sure thing. You can’t make anything else out of it—can you?” Brent said, “Buried treasure’s good enough for _me_—gold or stakes or pies, I don’t care. I’d like to dig up a few buckwheat cakes just now.” “Do you know what you are? Do you know what you are?” the kid began shouting. “You’re a Philippine—that’s what you are!” I said, “You mean a philistine—that’s a person that makes fun of things and doesn’t believe anything.” Brent said, “The only time I ever went after buried treasure I was _foiled_ by the boy scouts. Never again. They wouldn’t chop down a tree under which the treasure was buried because they loved trees.” “This isn’t under a tree,” Pee-wee said; “it’s in a cove—on the end of a line due north. That’s different. That’s always the kind of a place wkere treasure is—in a cove. You can tell by the names that there’s treasure there—Snake Creek and Skeleton Cove and lines due north and willows and everything. It says _treasure_, doesn’t it? What more do you want?” “Only where’s the place?” Brent said. “We’ll find it,” Pee-wee said; “we’ll find it if we, if we—drop in our tracks.” Brent said, “That’s something I’ve always longed to do—drop in my tracks. I’d like to be rescued by a St. Bernard dog.” I said, “_Good night_, have a heart. There are dogs enough in this series of thrilling adventures.” Brent said, “Well anyway, this is the only story of adventure that has a scarecrow for a villain. What d’ye say?” XXIX—THE MYSTERY DEEPENS Brent said, “Well, as long as you like my little mystery, we might as well take a peep into it. We may have a couple of hairbreadth escapes, you never can tell. By rights, we ought to quarrel over the treasure after we have found it, and all kill each other. That’s the way they usually do.” “They don’t do that way any more,” Pee-wee said; “they divide it up.” Brent said, “No, I insist on quarreling over it.” He folded the paper and put it back in his pocket. It seemed funny for a paper like that to be in an old black frock coat like ministers wear. I had to laugh at Brent on account of the sober way he tucked it back into the pocket. I said, “It’s got _me_ interested, that’s one sure thing. But how are we going to find out where that place is?” He said, “Well, the proper way would be for us just to fit out an expedition and go in search of it like old what’s-his-name who hunted for the soda fountain down in Florida.” Pee-wee said, “Ponce de Leon, he hunted for the Fountain of Youth.” “But the best way,” Brent said, “if you’re really interested, is for us to get hold of a map of the Ohio River when we hit Indianapolis. We cross the Ohio at Wheeling and if that old creek is anywhere in our neighborhood we’ll see if we can hoe up a few nuggets. That’s the proper thing, isn’t it—nuggets?” “Nuggets and pieces of eight,” Pee-wee said, very serious.