LITMIR.BIZ

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Guy?” asked Tom, with a smile.

      “I did.”

      “Really and truly?” said Tom, laughing.

      “Yes; really and truly.”

      “I suppose,” remarked Miss Todd, “he did not accept your offer?”

      “No; he thought that what I would write would not be edifying.”

      “If you would write a sermon, Guy, I would go to hear it,” said Tom.

      “And I, too,” added his sister, the teacher.

      “Then I should be sure of a congregation of two. Well, I will think of it.”

      Guy took his hat to go.

      “I will walk with you part way,” said Tom. “It is pleasant out, and I shall sleep the better for a walk.”

      “I shall be glad of your company, Tom.”

      When they were outside, Tom said, “I had an object in proposing to walk with you to-night, Guy. There is something I wanted to tell you.”

      “Go ahead, Tom.”

      “I think it is something you ought to know. I was walking home from singing school the other evening, when I came up behind Deacon Crane and another member of the church, Mr. Job Wilkins. I didn’t hear the first part of the conversation, but as I came within hearing I heard Deacon Crane say: ‘Yes, Brother Wilkins, I have thought for some time that the best interests of the church required that we should have a younger minister, who would stir up the people and draw in a larger number.’”

      Guy flushed with indignation.

      “Deacon Crane said that?” he ejaculated. “Why, he pretends to be one of father’s best friends.”

      “I think it is a pretense,” said Tom.

      “Poor father! If he should hear this it would almost break his heart. He is so fond of the people here.”

      “It is a shame; but don’t worry too much over it. I am sure the majority of the parish don’t wish any change.”

      In spite of this assurance, Guy went home in a sober frame of mind.

      CHAPTER II

      WHAT GUY FOUND IN THE BLUE CHEST

      Mr. Fenwick was only forty-eight years old, but his sedate and scholarly manner gave him an appearance of being several years older.

      It came to Guy as a shock that his father should be considered too old by his parish, and that there should be any movement in favor of a younger minister. He knew that his father was dependent on his salary, having very little property. A change would be disastrous to him.

      “I wish I were rich,” he thought, “so that I could relieve father from any anxiety about money matters. It is lucky I don’t want to go to college, for if I did, it would be a good many years before I could even support myself.”

      The next morning, after breakfast, Guy thought of his sailor uncle, and the curiosity again seized him to find out the contents of the chest up in the attic.

      He went up the narrow stairs leading to the garret, and found himself in a large room covering the entire extent of the house, for the attic had never been finished off or divided into chambers. There were piles of old papers and magazines in one corner, old mildewed garments hanging from nails in the rafters, and two or three old rusty trunks.

      But none of them attracted Guy’s attention. He was looking for his uncle’s chest.

      At last he found it—a typical sailor’s chest, painted blue, showing signs of wear, for it had accompanied his uncle for years.

      Guy’s face lighted up, and he hurried toward it.

      He thought it might be locked, but he was glad to find that the lock seemed to have been broken, so that he had no difficulty in lifting the lid and examining the contents.

      There was nothing unusual about these. They consisted of the plain outfit of a sailor.

      There were one or two books. One of them was a Bible, which had been presented to his uncle George by his mother at the time he left home on his first voyage.

      Guy lifted it carefully, for he had been taught to reverence the Bible. Then he saw underneath, an envelope of large size, unmarked on the outside.

      Opening this, he found a large sheet of paper, folded lengthwise, with writing upon it. Lying inside was a smaller piece of paper, also written over, the handwriting being that of his uncle George.

      This Guy read first. The contents interested him exceedingly.

      The paper is subjoined.

      What I am writing here may or may not be of interest or value, yet it may prove of importance to those who may read it, though it is possible this will not be till after my death. Last year (from the date Guy saw that it was the year before his death) among my mates on the good ship Cyprus was a dark, thin man, the darkest in complexion, I think, that I ever met outside the negro race.

      No one on board knew him, nor did any of us get well acquainted with him, for he was very silent and reserved, and did not care to make friends or confidants. Yet he did his duty well. No fault could be found with him. He did not become a favorite, as he did not care to talk or be sociable with the rest of the sailors. We could not help respecting him, however, as one who strictly minded his own business, and never in any way interfered with others.

      This man’s name was Antonio Smith, or Tony, as we should have called him if we had been sufficiently intimate. The two names did not go well together, and one day I asked him why it was that he had two such names.

      “It is easily explained,” he said. “My father was an Englishman, named Smith, but my mother was an Italian woman.”

      “That explains your being so dark,” I said.

      “Yes, I suppose so,” he answered.

      He did not confide in me to any further extent. As far as I could observe, he seemed moody and morbid. It seemed as if he had something on his mind—something of a disagreeable nature.

      Well, toward the end of the voyage he had a bad fall. He was helping to furl sails when another sailor above him lost his hold, and fell on him. This made Antonio lose his hold also, and he dropped to the deck, striking his head.

      It is a wonder he was not immediately killed. As it was he was fatally injured, as it proved, and was removed to his bunk in a dying condition. I pitied the poor fellow, and as much time as my duties would permit I spent at his side, trying to make him comfortable.

      One evening he looked at me earnestly, and asked: “Do you think that I can live, George?”

      I shook my head. “I don’t want to deceive you,” I answered, “and I will tell you the truth.”

      “It is what I want to hear,” he said.

      “The doctor says you can’t live.”

      He showed no agitation, but said, thoughtfully: “That is what I thought.”

      After a pause he continued: “Before I die there is something I want to confide to someone. You have been a friend to me, and you are the one I choose, if you don’t mind, to listen to what I have to say.”

      “I will hear it,” I said, “and if it is a message to anyone in whom you are interested I will engage to deliver it, if possible.”

      “No, there is no one in whom I am interested,” he answered. “All who once knew me are dead, or at all events are dead to me. But I have a secret which I once thought would be of value to me, and may be of value to you, whom I constitute my heir.”

      All this seemed very queer to me, and I half thought that the sick man might be wandering in mind. He went on: “You must know, George, and this is my first secret, that for five years I sailed under the black flag, and was a pirate!”

      I looked astounded, as well I might, and he continued:

      “I see you look surprised,

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