Thomas Bangs, an Englishman, pretended to have discovered and translated the journal kept by Valdez. After the journal had been translated — if, indeed, such a document ever really existed — Bangs pretended that it was accidentally destroyed.
Bangs’ translation and map are considered to be works of pure imagination. They were published from manuscript after the death of the author.
Bangs died in St. Augustine of yellow fever, about 1760-61, while preparing for an exploring expedition into the Florida wilderness.
Mildly edified, White glanced again at the girl across the aisle, and was surprised to see how her interest in the volume had altered her features. Tense, breathless, utterly absorbed in the book, she bent over the faded print, leaning close, for the sickly light that filtered through the glass roof scarcely illumined the yellow pages at all.
The curiosity of White was now aroused; he opened the glass case beside him, fished out his copy of the book, opened it, and began to read.
For the first few minutes his interest was anything but deep: he read the well-known pages where Bangs recounts how he discovered the journal of Valdez — and it sounded exceedingly fishy — a rather poorly written fairy-tale done by a man with little invention and less imagination, so worn out, hackneyed and trite were the incidents, so obvious the coincidences.
White shrugged his shoulders and turned from the preface to what purported to be the translation.
Almost immediately it struck him that this part of the book was not written by the same man. Here was fluency, elegance of expression, ease, the simplicity of a soldier who had something to say and but a short time in which to say it. Even the apparent clumsiness of the translation had not deformed the work.
Little by little the young man became intensely interested, then absorbed. And after a while the colour came into his face; he glanced nervously around him; suppressed excitement made his hands unsteady as he unfolded the enclosed map.
From time to time he referred to the map as he read; the rain roared on the glass roof; the light grew dimmer and dimmer.
At five o’clock the galleries closed for the day. And that evening, sitting in his hall-bedroom, White made up his mind that he must buy “The Journal of Valdez” if it took every penny that remained to him.
The next day was fair and cold; fashion graced the Octavo de Folio exhibition; White had no time to re-read any passages or to re-examine the map, because people were continually asking to see and handle the books in his case.
Across the aisle he noticed that his pretty neighbour was similarly occupied. And he was rather glad, because he felt, vaguely, that it was just as well she did not occupy her time in reading “The Journal of Valdez.” Girls usually have imagination. The book might stir her up as it had stirred him. And to no purpose.
Also, he was glad that nobody asked to look at the Valdez copy in his own case. He didn’t want people to look at it. There were reasons — among others, he wanted to buy it himself. He meant to if fifteen hundred dollars would buy it.
White had not the remotest idea what the book might bring at auction. He dared not inquire whether the volume was a rare one, dreading even to call the attention of his fellow employees to it. A word might arouse their curiosity.
All day long he attended to his duties there, and at five he went home, highly excited, determined to arrive at the galleries next morning in time enough to read the book a little before the first of the public came.
And he did get there very early. The only other employee who had arrived before him was the red-haired girl. She sat by her case reading “The Journal of Valdez.” Once she looked up at him with calm, clear, intelligent eyes. He did not see her; he hastily unlocked his case and drew out the coveted book. Then he sat down and began to devour it. And so utterly and instantly was he lost amid those yellow, time-faded pages that he did not even glance across the aisle at his ornamental neighbour. If he had looked he would have noticed that she also was buried in “The Journal of Valdez.” And it might have made him a trifle uneasy to see her look from her book to him and from him to the volume he was perusing so excitedly.
It being the last day that the library was to be on view before the sale, fashion and monomania rubbed elbows in the Heikem Galleries, crowding the well known salons morning and afternoon. And all day long White and his neighbour across the aisle were busy taking out books and manuscripts for inspection, so that they had no time for luncheon, and less for Valdez.
And that night they were paid off and dismissed; and the auctioneer and his corps of assistants took charge.
The sale took place the following morning and afternoon. White drew from the bank his fifteen hundred dollars, breakfasted on bread and milk, and went to the galleries more excited than he had ever been before in his long life of twenty-three years. And that is some time.
It was a long shot at Fortune he meant to take — a really desperate chance. One throw would settle it — win or lose. And the idea scared him badly, and he was trembling a little when he took his seat amid the perfumed gowns of fashion and the white whiskers of high finance, and the shabby vestments of monomania.
Once or twice he wondered whether he was crazy. Yet, every throb of his fast-beating heart seemed to summon him to do and dare; and he felt, without even attempting to explain the feeling to himself, that now at last Opportunity was loudly rapping at his door, and that if he did not let her in he would regret it as long as he lived.
As he glanced fearfully about him he caught sight of his pretty neighbour who had held sway across the aisle. So she, too, had come to watch the sale! Probably for the excitement of hearing an auctioneer talk in thousands.
He was a little surprised, nevertheless, for she did not look bookish — nor even intellectual enough to mar her prettiness. Yet, wherever she went she would look adorable. He understood that, now.
It was a day of alarms for him, of fears, shocks, and frights innumerable. With terror he heard the auctioneer talking in terms of thousands; with horror he witnessed the bids on certain books advance by thousands at a clip. Five thousand, ten thousand, twenty thousand were bid, seen, raised, called, hiked, until his head spun and despair seized him.
What did he know about Valdez? Either volume might bring fifty thousand dollars for all he knew. Had he fifty thousand he felt, somehow, that he would have bid it to the last penny for the book. And he came to the conclusion that he was really crazy. Yet there he sat, glued to his chair, listening, shuddering, teeth alternately chattering or grimly locked, while the very air seemed to reek of millions, and the incessant gabble of the auctioneer drove him almost out of his wits.
Nearer and nearer approached the catalogued numbers of the two copies of Valdez; pale and desperate he sat there, his heart almost suffocating him as the moment drew near. And now the time had come; now the celebrated Mr. Heikem began his suave preliminary chatter; now he was asking confidently for a bid.
A silence ensued — and whether it was the silence of awe at the priceless treasure or the silence of indifference White did not know. But after the auctioneer had again asked for a bid he found his voice and offered ten dollars. His ears were scarlet when he did it.
“Fifteen,” said a sweet but tremulous voice not far from White, and he looked around in astonishment. It was his red-haired vis-a-vis.
“Twenty!” he retorted, still labouring under his astonishment.
“Twenty-five!” came the same sweet voice.
There was a silence. No other voices said anything. Evidently nobody wanted Valdez except himself and his red-haired neighbour.
“Thirty!” he called out at the psychological moment.
The girl turned in her chair and looked at him. She seemed to be unusually pale.
“Thirty-five!” she said, still gazing at White in a frightened sort of way.
“Forty,” he said; rose at the same moment and walked over to where the girl was sitting.
She looked up at him as he bent over her chair; both were very serio
us.
“You and I are the only two people bidding,” he said. “There are two copies of the book. Don’t bid against me and you can buy in the other one for next to nothing — judging from the course this one is taking.”
“Very well,” she said quietly.
A moment later the first copy of Valdez was knocked down to James White. An indifferent audience paid little attention to the transaction.
Two minutes later the second copy fell to Miss Jean Sandys for five dollars — there being no other bidder.
White had already left the galleries. Lingering at the entrance he saw Miss Sandys pass him, and he lifted his hat. The slightest inclination of her pretty head acknowledged it. The next moment they were lost to each other’s view in the crowded street.
Clutching his battered book to his chest, not even daring to drop it into his overcoat for fear of pickpockets, the young fellow started up Broadway at a swinging pace which presently brought him to the offices of the Florida Spanish Grants Company; and here, at his request, he was ushered into a private room; a map of Seminole County spread on the highly polished table before him, and a suave gentleman placed at his disposal.
“Florida,” volunteered the suave gentleman, “is the land of perpetual sunshine — the land of milk and honey, as it were, the land of the orange — —”
“One moment, please,” said White.
“Sir?”
They looked at each other for a second or two, then White smiled:
“I don’t want dope,” he said pleasantly, “I merely want a few facts — if your company deals in them.”
“Florida,” began the suave gentleman, watching the effect of his words, “is the garden of the world.” Then he stopped, discouraged, for White was grinning at him.
“It won’t do,” said White amiably.
“No?” queried the suave gentleman, the ghost of a grin on his own smooth countenance.
“No, it won’t do. Now, if you will restrain your very natural enthusiasm and let me ask a few questions — —”
“Go ahead,” said the suave gentleman, whose name was Munsell. “But I don’t believe we have anything to suit you in Seminole County.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” returned White coolly, “is it all under water?”
“There are a few shell mounds. The highest is nearly ten inches above water. We call them hills.”
“I might wish to acquire one of those mountain ranges,” remarked White seriously.
After a moment they both laughed.
“Are you in the game yourself?” inquired Mr. Munsell.
“Well, my game is a trifle different.”
“Oh. Do you care to be more explicit?”
White shook his head:
“No; what’s the use? But I’ll say this: it isn’t the ‘Perpetual Sunshine and Orange Grove’ game, or how to become a millionaire in three years.”
“No?” grinned Munsell, lifting his expressive eyebrows.
White bent over the map for a few moments.
“Here,” he said carelessly, “is the Spanish Causeway and the Coakachee River. It’s all swamp and jungle, I suppose — although I see you have it plotted into orange groves, truck gardens, pineapple plantations, and villas.”
Munsell made a last but hopeless effort. “Some day,” he began, with dignity — but White’s calm wink discouraged further attempts. Then the young man tapped with his pencil lots numbered from 200 to 210, slowly, going over them again for emphasis.
“Are those what you want?” asked Munsell.
“Those are what I want.”
“All right. Only I can’t give you 210.”
“Why not?”
“Yesterday a party took a strip along the Causeway including half of 210 up to 220.”
“Can’t I get all of 210?”
“I’ll ask the party. Where can I address you?”
White stood up. “Have everything ready Tuesday. I’ll be in with the cash.”
XXVII
And on Tuesday he kept his word and the land was his for a few hundred dollars — all except the half of Lot No. 210, which it appeared the “party” declined to sell, refusing to consider any profit whatever.
“It’s like a woman,” remarked Munsell.
“Is your ‘party’ a woman?”
“Yes. I guess she’s into some game or other, too. Say, what is this Seminole County game, Mr. White? — if you don’t mind my asking, now that you have taken title to your — h’m! — orange grove.”
“Why do you think there is any particular game afoot?” inquired the young man curiously.
“Oh, come! You know what you’re buying. And that young lady knew, too. You’ve both bought a few acres of cypress swamp and you know it. What do you think is in it?”
“Snakes,” said White coolly.
“Oh, I know,” said Munsell. “You think there’s marl and phosphoric rock.”
“And isn’t there?” asked White innocently.
“How should I know?” replied Munsell as innocently; the inference being that he knew perfectly well that there was nothing worth purchasing in the Causeway swamp.
But when White went away he was a trifle worried, and he wondered uneasily why anybody else at that particular time should happen to invest in swampy real estate along the Spanish Causeway.
He knew the Spanish Causeway. In youthful and prosperous days, when his parents were alive, they had once wintered at Verbena Inlet.
And on several occasions he had been taken on excursions to the so-called Spanish Causeway — a dike-shaped path, partly ruined, made of marl and shell, which traversed the endless swamps of Seminole County, and was supposed to have been built by De Soto and his Spaniards.
But whoever built it, Spaniard, Seminole, or the prehistoric people antedating both, there it still was, a ruined remnant of highway penetrating the otherwise impassable swamps.
For miles across the wilderness of cypress, palmetto, oak, and depthless mud it stretched — a crumbling but dry runway for deer, panther, bear, black wolf, and Seminole. And excursion parties from the great hotels at Verbena often picnicked at its intersection with the forest road, but ventured no farther along the dismal, forbidding, and snake-infested ridge which ran anywhere between six inches and six feet above the level of the evil-looking marsh flanking it on either side.
In the care-free days of school, of affluence, and of youth, White had been taken to gaze upon this alleged relic of Spanish glory. He now remembered it very clearly.
And that night, aboard the luxurious Verbena Special, he lay in his bunk and dreamed dreams awake, which almost overwhelmed him with their magnificence. But when he slept his dreams were uneasy, interspersed with vague visions of women who came in regiments through flowering jungles to drive him out of his own property. It was a horrid sort of nightmare, for they pelted him with iron-bound copies of Valdez, knocking him almost senseless into the mud. And it seemed to him that he might have perished there had not his little red-haired neighbour extended a slender, helping hand in the nick of time.
Dreaming of her he awoke, still shaking with the experience. And all that day he read in his book and pored over the map attached to it, until the locomotive whistled for St. Augustine, and he was obliged to disembark for the night.
However, next morning he was on his way to Verbena, the train flying through a steady whirlwind of driving sand. And everywhere in the sunshine stretched the flat-woods, magnificently green — endless miles of pine and oak and palmetto, set with brilliant glades of vast, flat fields of wild phlox over which butterflies hovered.
At Verbena Station he disembarked with his luggage, which consisted of a complete tropical camping outfit, tinned food, shot-gun, rifle, rods, spade, shovel, pick, crow. In his hand he carried an innocent looking satchel, gingerly. It contained dynamite in sticks, and the means to explode it safely.
To a hackman he said: “I’m not going to any hotel. What I want is a wagon, a team of mules, and a driver to ta
ke me and my outfit to Coakachee Creek on the Spanish Causeway. Can you fix it for me?”
The hackman said he could. And in half an hour he drove up in his mule wagon to the deserted station, where White sat all alone amid his mountainous paraphernalia.
When the wagon had been loaded, and they had been driving through the woods for nearly half an hour in silence, the driver’s curiosity got the better of him, and he ventured to enquire of White why everybody was going to the Spanish Causeway.
Which question startled the young man very disagreeably until he learned that “everybody” merely meant himself and one other person taken thither by the same driver the day before.
Further, he learned that this person was a woman from the North, completely equipped for camping as was he. Which made him more uneasy than ever, for he of course identified her with Mr. Munsell’s client, whose land, including half of Lot 210, adjoined his own. Who she might be and why she had come down here to Seminole County he could not imagine, because Munsell had intimated that she knew what she was buying.
No doubt she meant to play a similar game to Munsell’s, and had come down to take a look at her villainous property before advertising possibilities of perpetual sunshine.
Yet, why had she brought a camping outfit? Ordinary land swindlers remained comfortably aloof from the worthless property they advertised. What was she intending to do there?
Instead of a swindler was she, perhaps, the swindlee? Had she bought the property in good faith? Didn’t she know it was under water? Had she come down here with her pitiful camping equipment prepared to rough it and set out orange trees? Poor thing!
“Was she all alone?” he inquired of his cracker driver.
“Yaas, suh.”
“Poor thing. Did she seem young and inexperienced?”
“Yaas, suh— ‘scusin she all has right smart o’ red ha’r.”
“What?” exclaimed White excitedly. “You say she is young, and that she seemed inexperienced, except for her red hair!”
“Yaas, suh. She all has a right smart hank of red ha’r on her haid. I ain’t never knowed nobody with red ha’r what ain’t had a heap mo’ ‘sperience than the mostest.”
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 686
