always seemed to imbibe silence with his
grog.

At length, in spite of very vigorous
attempts at mystery, it began to be whispered
about, that Peter was the owner of a valuable
secret concerning a treasure buried in the
wars. People not yet in his confidence pooh-
poohed the idea, and yet Peter's friends
increased in number daily.

For my own part, I had not yet arrived at
the money-hunting age; my heart was then
all upon horses and dogs, embroidered waistcoats,
and Albanian fancy dresses: with some
dreams of Gulnares and Medoras, and
pretty Annie Blondie, the rector's daughter.
A hidden treasure did not excite me to desire
Peter's patronage, nearly so much as his skill
in dressing a Mayfly. As it happened, my
passion for fishing let me into the secret
which had been travelling up and down the
best streets of our town.

One fine summer's evening I had been
trying all I knew, without success, to inveigle
a great four pound trout, who kept lazily
rising and sinking at the far side of a deep
pool, under the overhanging roots of a gnarled
willow-tree; when Peter, stealing with his
quiet lengthy stride across the grass, made
his appearance at my elbow suddenly.

"Will you let me try, Master Charles, what
I can do with the big rogue?"

I did let him, and he dropped the fly— a fly
of his own making— just behind the big trout,
as light as thistle-down; one dash, one splash;
and in ten minutes the trout was safe under
my landing net, flapping out his life on the grass.

"Always throw just behind them big 'uns,
Master Charles, and they'll take sure enough,
but they won't look at a fly just before them.
Same as rich men for that!" added Peter,
with a chuckle.

This triumph over the trout led the way
to chat on the grass, and, little by little, we
got at last to Peter's battles in Spain and
Portugal. I cannot do justice to Peter's oily
flattery, and the sympathy he expressed for
a raal gintleman and a sportsman: not like
the poor mean beggars of peddling
shopkeepers. He made me understand that I was
one who would spend money in true style if I
had it; and then, after hinting that a beautiful
young lady in the neighbourhood had
confided to Peter— every one did confide in Peter
— her preference for Master Charles, with
many artful round-abouts he confided to me
the following story; the key to the favour he
had acquired among all ranks of the good
people of Muddleborough.

Peter declared that during the retreat to
Torres Vedras, he and two other comrades
were entrusted with the care of a waggon
laden with boxes of gold doubloons; that in a
skirmish they had retreated for safety to a
convent, and there tilted the waggon-load,
all but one box, into a deep convent well.
The same day, all his companions were killed
in action, and he was wounded and laid in the
hospital. At this point of his story he
exhibited a ghastly scar in his side.

The one box they had partly divided
amongst them, and partly buried. He had,
on recovery, been sent to join his regiment,
and marched to the Pyrenees and Toulouse:
where he lost his hand. On his arrival in
England he was discharged with a pension
(here he produced papers); he had after
long trials succeeded in getting back to
Portugal; he had found the Convent deserted,
and the well half filled with rubbish; he had
discovered, too, the small parcel of doubloons,
but found that it would require the influence
of some real gentleman to get the treasure
out of the well, and out of the country. When
his romance had proceeded thus far, he
produced from some recondite part of his
garments, wrapped in many rags, a real
golden doubloon.

Who could disbelieve so circumstantial a
story, supported by so much evidence? He
went on to say that the publican, the druggist,
the shoemaker, the gunsmith, and many
others, were all anxious to go in partnership,
and start for Portugal; that Mr. Tammy was
willing to advance something handsome on
the speculation; but that he preferred dealing
with a young gentleman of spirit, and that if
I could persuade my rich aunt to advance the
money necessary for the journey— a trifle of
two hundred pounds— he was willing to give
up the handsome offers of Tammy, Kinine,
Tiles, Smoker, and all the rest of them; and
set out with me, secretly and alone, to rifle
this new cave of Aladdin. His plans were
very complete. We were to hire a vineyard
— part of the old convent grounds— and, after
getting up the treasure, were to pack it in
Port-wine casks with double bottoms, and
then, returning, share the spoil. I was to
marry a beautiful lady, keep a pack of
hounds, and be the head of the county;
while Peter was modest and would be quite
satisfied with enough to maintain a horse, a
couple of setters, and the life of a squireen.

The romance was well put together and
most insinuatingly told; but, I was rather
too young, too indifferent, too merry, and too
full of little minor schemes, to bite. Besides,
I did not think that my Aunt Rebecca would
give me two hundred pounds to go to Portugal
with a strange Irishman; and I did not quite
like the notion of leaving my favourite Annie
Blondie to the exclusive care of my rival, the
young curate. So, after giving Peter my
honour that I would not reveal the
momentous secret to any living soul, we parted
at the Fisherman Tavern: where I paid for
divers glasses of grog, and presented Peter
with the only half-sovereign I was likely to
have that week.

In the course of the month Peter was
missing. It was observed that all his patrons
— Smoker, and Tiles, Jolly, Kinine, and
Tammy— looked particularly pleased and