The Republican journal. [volume] (Belfast, Me.) 1829-current, 1911-10-26
TREASURE TROVE.

Jarvis journeyed from the little railroad
station in brightly painted stage drawn
by iron gray horses. He was the only
passenger for the beach. At the en-
trance to a narrow sandy lane shaded
by wind blown cedars, under which the
marsh grass struggled sparsely, the stage
stopped.
s'All out!' sang the driver Justify.
''Goin' to the beach, We said?" He
peered down at Jarvis with beedy black
eyes beneath thatches of white eyebrows.
"Yes; Edgewater cottage. Straight
ahead?" Jarvis asked the question while
he threw his luggage to the ground and
paid his driver.
''Edgewater cottage? That'll be the
Rowe place, last cottage on the left. So
long,"
''Much obliged. Goodbye
Jarvis turned to the left and walked
slowly down to the beach, his head barred
to the fresh breeze, his lungs gratefully
inhaling the invigorating salt air.
The last cottage proved to be rather
large structure placed not far beyond
high water mark. Its shingles were
weather beaten to silver gray, and the
many windows tightly shattered looked
like closed eyes in sad face. 1t seemed
desolate enough compared to the other
coy houses along the beach, but Jarvis
decided after a hasty examination that
when he got some porch furniture and
opened up the shutters the cottage he
had hired would be fit enough for his
purposes.
The rusty key he had obtained from
the agent creaked in the lock and the
door swung open, admitting him to large,
comfortably furnished rooms.
His first duty was to throw wide the
shutters and raise the window sashes to
the fresh air. Except for layer of dust
over everything the house was in ex-
quisite order of arrangement. He decided
and as he arranged by letter for his
long point beyond, there was little for
him to do save to arrange cot in the
balcony and unpack his painting things.
At sunset steam launch from the
hotel discharged boy with a basket
containing his dinner Jarvis discussed
the excellent meal on the veranda, his
artists eye lingering on the wide sweep
of green and blue fiecked with white
that filled the foreground.
Here were color and life enough to
linn any number of canvasses. Jarvis
was glad he had decided to close his
studio and run away from all his friends,
and the chance that brought him to
Beachside had been decided by the child
ish method of closing his eyes and rum
ming his finger along the map of New
Jersey while he counted ten. Then he
had opened his eyes and found Beach
side, most inconspicuous of small water
ing places, under his finger. Now he was
here.
He smoked cigar thoughtfully while
the sunset tints faded to opal and silver
and then a uniform slate gray settled
over the water.
The cigar consumed, Jarvis felt for
another one in vain. His cigar case was
empty; also he had forgotten his tobacco
pouch. He fingered his pipe wistfully
and rummaged his traps for tobacco Of
some sort. In sheer desperation he
carried his tallow candle There was no
kerosene in the cottage) from room to
room in an aimless search for nicotine
At last he whistled joyously. On a
small stand in one corner of the living
room he found smoking set of hammer
ed brass. The huge tobacco jar contain
ed a few pinches of the desired weed,
and he crammed it into his pipe CRATE
fully.
Now he closed the door and locked it
and went up to his balcony. He threw
himself down on the cot and smoked
contentedly, dreamily. Overhead was
the shine of gentle stars, and on the
beach the waves broke softly, unsteady.
He went to sleep.
Jarvis was awakened by crashing
volley of thunder, followed by vivid
flash of lightning. He sat up and gazed
open mouthed at the strange scene de-
picted before his eyes.
There was all the wild fury of hurri-
cane bursting about his ears, Huge
waves pounded on the beach, breaking
in binding spray that drenched his face
Some dark shape doomed OUT of the black
ness, coming nearer. He discerned the
outlines of large white steamer, saw
heard the blare of her distress signals,
engulfed in the sea. Still the waves
broke on the beach, and in their tossing
they flung dark form on the white sand
beneath the balcony
Jarvis tried to rise, but his limbs SEEM
ed paralyzed. He endeavored to utter a
sound, but his lips were dumb He could
only sit there on his couch wildly con-
scious of tragedy heaped on tragedy,
poWerless to help.
Another wave rose high crested, curv-
ed downward and greedily snatched the
still dark form from the sand, drew it
out into the seas bosom and kept it.
Mortified, the painter stared down at
the beach, now conscious that the silent
form had left something behind, small,
dark object whose outlines were lost in
the darkness. Then the waves came
again and again, sucking up the sand
and piling it over and about one dark
object until it was entirely hidden from
view
With appalling suddenness the storm
vanished as if it had never been. Over
head the stars shone gently, and the
waves softly Tapped the quiet beach.
Jarvis found his motive power as if
magically restored. With leap he was
off the cot and dashing down the stairs
to the sand. There he stood dumfounded.
10 the touch of his stockinged feet the
sand was warm and dry. His cropping
fingers confirmed that fact. The tide
was rising, and almost to it's verge the
sand showed no trace of dampness. The
sea stretched a level expanse, broken
here and there by dimpling wavelets.
I'm be hanged if l know what to
make of it, muttered Jarvis, dazedly.
8 l..54