The soldier he had left sitting against the fence
troubled him, it is true; and he was not quite sure
that he was through with one so palpably robbed.
That he had not been followed appeared certain; that
the question of future ownership of the treasure could
be settled was a matter of superstitious belief.
There was only one way—he must hide the
box in a secret nook, and if it remained undisturbed
for a reasonable length of time, he might hope for
its undisturbed enjoyment. Accordingly he stole
into a dense copse and buried his booty at the foot
of a persimmon-tree, then gained his humble quarter
and slept so late and soundly that he had to be dragged
almost without the door the next morning before he
shook off his lethargy.
ITS INFLUENCE
With the exception of aptitude which enabled Jeff
to catch and fix a tune in his mind with a fair degree
of correctness, his mental processes were slow.
Moreover, whether he should ever have any trouble
with “spooks” or not, one thing was true
of him, as of many others in all stations of life,
he was haunted by the ghost of a conscience.
This uneasy spirit suggested to him with annoying
iteration that his proceedings the night before had
been of very unusual and doubtful character.
When at last fully awake, he sought to appease the
accusing voice by unwonted diligence in all his tasks,
until the fat cook, a devout Baptist, took more than
one occasion to say, “You’se in a promisin’
frame, Jeff. Ef I’se ony shoah dat yer
hole out long anuff ter get ’mersed, I’d
hab hopes on yer, but, law! yer’ll be a-fiddlin’
de debil’s tunes ‘fo’ de week is
out. I’se afeared dat dere must be an awful
prov’dence, like a battle or harricane, onst
a week, ter keep yer ser’ous;” and the
old woman sniffed down at him with ill-concealed disdain
from her superior spiritual height.
Jeff was as serious as could have been wished all
that day, for there was much on his mind. Perplexing
questions tinged with supernatural terrors tormented
him. Passing over those having a moral point,
the most urgent one was, “S’pose dat ar
soger miss him box an come arter it ternight.
Ki! If I go ter see, I mout run right on ter
de spook. I’se a-gwine ter gib ‘im
his chance, an’ den take mine.” So
that evening Jeff fortified himself and increased
the cook’s hope by a succession of psalm-tunes
in which there was no lapse toward the “debil’s”
music.
Next morning, after a long sleep, Jeff’s nerves
were stronger, and he began to take a high hand with
conscience.
“Dat ar soger has hab his chance,” he
reasoned. “Ef he want de box he mus’
‘a’ com arter it las’ night.
I’se done bin fa’r wid him, an’
now ter-night, ef dat ar box ain’ ’sturbed,
I’se a-gwine ter see de ‘scription an’
heft on it. Toder night I was so ’fuscated
dat I couldn’t know nuffin straight.”
When all were sleeping, he stole to the persimmon-tree
and was elated to find his treasure where he had slightly
buried it. The little box seemed heavy, and was
wholly unlike anything he ever seen before.
