COCOS— A TALE OF TREASURE 281 



tale of Cocos, but he seemed the sort of legendary 

 figure whom one could never hope actually to see. 

 We had visited his settlement at Wafer Bay, and 

 seen his house, whose crumbling piles have let the 

 structure settle crazily to the ground, the remains 

 of storehouses, the little iron stove sitting forlorn 

 and rusty at the edge of the beach where it has 

 been dragged by some visitor since he left. From 

 his plantation, all but undiscoverable in the tangle 

 of wild things that are springing to reclaim their 

 ground, we picked quantities of limes, and carried 

 them aboard in an empty box marked "DYNA- 

 MITE." 



But it was months later that I climbed those 

 creaking New York stairs, and knocked upon a 

 door. It might have been the cover of a Conrad 

 novel, for it opened on a figure that he would have 

 understood and interpreted as no other could. 



A big man, straight and upstanding as a youth, 

 with a white beard that covered his chest, bright 

 blue eyes that could twinkle or glower, and the 

 shipshape trimness that speaks of seafaring, opened 

 to me. Four words — "I've come from Cocos" — 

 were my magic formula, and in less than that many 

 minutes we were in the midst of the story. Over an 

 immaculate cloth we discussed delicious coffee, 

 while the tale of treasure unfolded and the deep- 

 toned mutter of the town seemed to change to the 

 rush of the precipitate storm down the deep ravines 

 of that island that has not yet given up its secret. 



