“The upshot of all which is, that, if I mistake not,” said Tom, sturdily, “you are he commonly called Old Scratch.”

“The same at your service!” replied the black man, with a half civil nod.

Such was the opening of this interview, according to the old story, though it has almost too familiar an air to be credited.  One would think that to meet with such a singular personage in this wild, lonely place, would have shaken any man’s nerves; but Tom was a hard-minded fellow, not easily daunted, and he had lived so long with a termagant wife, that he did not even fear the devil.

It is said that after this commencement they had a long and earnest Conversation together, as Tom returned homewards.  The black man told him of great sums of money which had been buried by Kidd the pirate, under the oak trees on the high ridge not far from the morass.  All these were under his command and protected by his power, so that none could find them but such as propitiated his favor.  These he offered to place within Tom Walker’s reach, having conceived an especial kindness for him:  but they were to be had only on certain conditions.  What these conditions were, may easily be surmised, though Tom never disclosed them publicly.  They must have been very hard, for he required time to think of them, and he was not a man to stick at trifles where money was in view.  When they had reached the edge of the swamp the stranger paused.

“What proof have I that all you have been telling me is true?” said Tom.

“There is my signature,” said the black man, pressing his finger on Tom’s forehead.  So saying, he turned off among the thickets of the swamp, and seemed, as Tom said, to go down, down, down, into the earth, until nothing but his head and shoulders could be seen, and so on until he totally disappeared.

When Tom reached home he found the black print of a finger burnt, as it were, into his forehead, which nothing could obliterate.

The first news his wife had to tell him was the sudden death of Absalom Crowninshield, the rich buccaneer.  It was announced in the papers with the usual flourish, that “a great man had fallen in Israel.”

Tom recollected the tree which his black friend had just hewn down, and which was ready for burning.  “Let the freebooter roast,” said Tom, “who cares!” He now felt convinced that all he had heard and seen was no illusion.

He was not prone to let his wife into his confidence; but as this was an uneasy secret, he willingly shared it with her.  All her avarice was awakened at the mention of hidden gold, and she urged her husband to comply with the black man’s terms and secure what would make them wealthy for life.  However Tom might have felt disposed to sell himself to the devil, he was determined not to do so to oblige his wife; so he flatly refused out of the mere spirit of contradiction.  Many and bitter were the quarrels they had on the subject, but the more she talked the more resolute was Tom not to be damned to please her.  At length she determined to drive the bargain on her own account, and if she succeeded, to keep all the gain to herself.