“What do you mean, piece of junk?” Briggs said hotly. “I wrote that book!” He was stung to the quick. “What did you ever write?”
“Some of the best oil-stock prospectuses anyone ever read, shorty,” Clarence said, and carried the scroll to a lamp. “Let’s see what we have here, huh?”
He unrolled the parchment and studied the words with a frown. Quite obviously the thing made little sense to him. He looked up. “All right, what is this thing?” The three faced him in stubborn silence. Clarence’s tone hardened. “Look, chums, I asked a question and I expect an answer. Don’t make me ask twice; it makes me nervous. For the last time — what is this thing?”
Simpson cleared his throat nervously, preparatory to speaking. Briggs glared at his tall friend.
“Don’t tell him a bloody thing, Cliff! We found the scroll; it’s ours. Let him find his own bloody scroll. The library may be full of them for all we know.”
“Besides, Cliff” — Carruthers’ tone suggested that Simpson’s normal tendency toward logic be extended to the present circumstances — “Clarence freely admits that the scroll is not a part of his inventory, so he isn’t responsible for it. And there’s always that old dictum in law: Qui aliquid repent, tenet; qui amittit, illacrimat.”
Clarence looked at him uncertainly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Losers weepers, finders keepers. Probably not the best translation, but adequate, I believe.” Carruthers shrugged and held out his hand. “So, if you don’t mind, we’d like our scroll back and then we’ll leave you in peace.”
Clarence took a deep breath. His voice became dangerous.
“I don’t think you really realize your position. It may be true that Hal might have some compunction about harming old baggy-pants, here, but I don’t think he’d mind much if I asked him to pound shorty into the ground like a tent-stake. And I’m going to do just that in about two seconds flat, if I don’t get a straight answer from one of you. Now, what is this thing?”
Carruthers sighed, the sigh of one who has done his best but must still face defeat.
“I suppose you’d best tell him, Clifford; if, that is, we do not wish to spend the balance of the night in idle conversation before we are free to leave this place.”
“I’m against telling him a bloody thing!” Briggs said belligerently.
“You shut up!” Clarence turned to glare at Simpson. “Well?”
Simpson looked unhappy. “If you insist, sir, but — I’m afraid you won’t believe me—”
“Try me!”
“Sir — it seems so ridiculous—”
“I’ve got a great feeling for the ridiculous,” Clarence said coldly, “but not very much patience. What is this thing?”
“Yes, sir. It’s—” Clifford Simpson wet his lips. He seemed a bit perturbed to be giving such insignificant trivia to a man of Clarence’s perspicacity, but then realized there was nothing else for it. “Well, sir, the fact is it’s simply a diploma for a man who graduated from Cambridge University after successfully fulfilling the requirements to receive a degree in” — he swallowed — “pig-farming...”
“What!”
“Yes, sir. Pig-farming. Or pig-raising, if you wish. The wording of the diploma isn’t exactly clear on that point. The word for ‘farming’—”
“Oh, so we’ve got a funny man in the crowd, eh?” Clarence smiled coldly, a smile confined to his thin lips. He studied the heiroglyphics on the parchment again for a moment and then raised his eyes. “Hal—”
Harold’s head came up with a jerk; he had been dozing on his feet. “Yeah, Clare?”
“Take skinny, here, outside and see if you can fit him into the rain barrel. If you have to tear off an arm or a leg to tuck him in, don’t worry about it!”
“Wait a moment,” Carruthers said hastily. He looked at his two friends apologetically. “Sorry, Tim. Sorry, Cliff. There’s nothing for it, I’m afraid, except to tell him what he wants to hear. Otherwise—” He shrugged. “Still,” he added, “there should be plenty in it for everyone, as far as that goes...”
“Plenty of what in what for who?” Clarence asked suspiciously.
“I believe that should be ‘for whom,’” Carruthers said critically, and frowned. “Or possibly not. I was never sure about that one. But no matter. Plenty of money, sir, money! For all of us.” His tone became stern, he looked Clarence in the eye. “And I’m afraid I must be adamant about that provision. A fair distribution, that is.”
“Money?” Clarence stared at the parchment.
“Yes. You see,” Carruthers said, putting as much conviction in his voice as he could, “the fact is that that parchment is simply a map. The map is on the reverse side, with instructions for its use on the face of the document. The map itself is very faint — you can barely make it out, but it’s still visible enough, fortunately. It was foolish of this man Avery to place the map on the outside, but I expect he felt the instructions were equally as important as the map itself. Certainly one would have been useless without the other. But, you see, some of these old-time pirates—”
“Chee!” Harold said, coming awake, his eyes gleaming. “A pirate map!”
“Wait a second! Hold the phone!” Clarence looked at the parchment again, studying both sides with care, and then looked up, a sardonic smile on his lips. “What are you trying to do? Sell me a pirate map? A pirate map? To me?” He shook his head. “Man, I’m the expert on con games. A pirate map, yet, in this day and age! You should be ashamed!”
“Sir,” Simpson said, reaching out a long arm and pointing, “do you see the name Avery there? Do you deny this is the Avery farm? And surely anyone can see the lines on the back appear to be a map of some sort, at least if the words mean anything. And that tiny letter x, which obviously marks some sort of spot?”
Clarence’s smile widened.
“Well, I have to give you credit for being a trifle better than rank amateurs,” he said, a slight tone of congratulation in his voice, “but take my word for it, you’re still amateurs. So you discovered the coincidence of the names and thought you could con me with it, eh? Selling pirate maps! Gentlemen, pirate maps went out with the Spanish prisoner gag, or with gold bricks. Today it’s oil wells, or even bridges. But pirate maps?” He sneered. “A good try, gents, but no cigar.”
Carruthers sighed mightily, looking crestfallen.
“Yes. Well,” he said regretfully, “it was all I could think up on the spur of the moment, since you would not accept the truth of its being just a diploma for pig-farming. And I could scarcely stand by and see Clifford come to harm without some effort on my part. I was afraid you would not be taken in, but one doesn’t win them all. Unfortunately.” He shook his head at his poor luck in convincing Clarence, and held out his hand. “And now, sir, if we could please have our diploma back, we’ll be on our way.”
“Now, hold it!” Clarence said with irritation. “You aren’t going anywhere!”
For a moment he wondered if possibly that was the idea; to get him to allow them to stay a few extra days, but he doubted it. If they stayed they would stay without any brandy and champagne, and with the bare minimum of food, and they must have known that would be the case. No; apparently they truly wished to leave with the parchment, and until he knew for sure exactly what the thing was, they were going to stay right here if he had to nail their shoes to the floor! He could, of course, let them leave without the parchment, but they already knew what the thing said, so that was out. He glanced at Harold, about to ask if by any chance the large man could read the thing, but he knew this was ridiculous.