Ad Astra: Lock, Stock & Buried Treasure

1

Trouble in paradise

It was ten o'clock in the morning. The gentle rumble of steam-powered hansom cabs passing in the street mingled with the lively chatter filling the bank. Most of the customers were the more well-to-do residents of the town, men dressed in fetching coats and hats, and ladies who carried parasols in delicate, gloved hands. None of them entertained the idea that anything dramatic was about to descend upon them - literally. The first indication the people and employees of the San Mariano bank had that anything was wrong, was the Chief Executive of the Treasury shouting in horror and collapsing on the floor.



The initial gunshot went unheard, but the sound of the Chief Executive crying in pain was perfectly audible. He tumbled to his knees, much to the shock of the on-looking ladies, and from there fell onto his side. Only about half the people in the bank saw him collapse and begin to bleed over the floor, the other half were busy looking up.



The gunman was on the roof. And while the shot had gone unheard, the bullet had had to pass through the fancy domed skylight that comprised a large portion of the bank's ceiling. The shattering of three hundred square feet of glass was more than enough to draw attention upwards. Even if the noise of the ceiling breaking apart did not do the trick, then the chunks of it raining down on the crowd certainly did.



Not a second after the glass had burst into dagger-like shards, more than half a dozen steel cables dropped through the new opening in the roof and people began to glide down them. Heavy boots dirtied the floor as the invaders landed, swords coming to hands and evil leers being beamed at every person in the bank.



Most of the ladies chose this point to start screaming in earnest, and head for the door. Two large figures - hitherto hidden from the crowd by dark cloaks - had been standing beside the doors this whole time. They slammed the two doors and brought the huge iron bar across them, barring the only exit. The pair stood taller than the other men, broader too, and ensured that not a single gent cared to try their luck in pushing past them, by issuing a clear threat with some knuckle-cracking.



The crowd scurried back from the doors, back into the centre of the room, where still more villains were dropping from the newly opened skylight. A dozen invaders in total dropped from above, where, had anyone looked up to see, there was now the dirty iron belly of an airship, the monstrous beast hovering like an expectant carrion bird. The invaders dispersed into the crowd, swords waving, pistols cocking, cackling at the helpless townsfolk who retreated from them. Some wore masks, some were missing teeth, most of them had scars, all of them were filthy with soot and grime.



Panic ensued as the attackers darted through the crowd like overgrown rats. They jabbed with their crude weapons, spat or kicked, and snarled or made grotesque faces far too close to their hapless victims for comfort. They seemed to take great pride in causing the most fuss they possibly could.



After some minutes of allowing the frightened shouting of the crowd to grow, one of the unwelcome guests - a woman with messily pinned up hair and very impressive assets on her chest - walked out into the middle of the floor and fired two shots into the roof. "Quiet!" she shouted into the din. Her order was instantly obeyed.



Silence descended immediately, the invaders now done with their game. The sound of cam wheels squeaking in protest drew many eyes upwards, where another cable was descending with another passenger. The man who came into view was holding onto the cable with one hand, one foot in a stirrup secured to the end. He was a wispy creature, looking like he could do with a good meal or two. His dress was anachronistic and resembled something out of a novel romanticising piracy. The most striking feature of this man, however, was not his clothes, but his hair. The best word to describe it was probably 'garish'. It was short, but still not as short as most gents' hair, as it fell about his face and looked as if it made a great plaything for the wind - in fact it looked as if the wind had already wrestled with it that day.



Better than that, though, was the vibrant, flamboyant colour of it. His compatriots might have called it daring, but most other men and ladies would have labelled it ridiculous. It was pink; a colour normally seen in spring bouquets for mothers or fiancs. Even so, this hair was far brighter in colour than any flower. It was clearly achieved synthetically, though the man's reasons for wanting to make himself stand out so clearly were not immediately obvious to society's cream.



The man glided down from the broken ceiling and jumped the last few feet to the ground, rolling and springing back to his feet like some sort of grasshopper. Silence accompanied this display, onlookers paralysed by confusion as to who this man was, or what his intervention meant for them. With the confidence to be expected from men with such garish taste, the man strode forward and surveyed the crowd. He paused, then walked a short way to the right, where the people shied from him, then back to the left, with the same result. People responded to him as they would if a lion were stalking through the room.



He moved with a notable spring in his step, clearly full of vitality, whatever his bony appearance might have suggested to the contrary. He abruptly stopped as he noted the body of the Chief Executive on the floor and slid over to it with a puzzled expression on his pale face. He leant over and smiled at the injured man, who made the most pitiful face at his tormentor. "Morning," the invader said pleasantly, before straightening up and spinning on a heel to regard the rest of the crowd.



One of the men who had descended from the monster airborne over the bank, hurried over to the injured Executive as the strange man moved away from him. He lifted the injured man and put him over a shoulder, silent. Whether the man with the unusual hair had noticed or approved of this, he gave no indication.



His face suddenly broke out into a grin, one that reeked of madness. "Good day everyone," he called to the room at large. His voice was clear and strong, the voice of a young man. "Apologies for the rude entrance - we did hope none of you would create too much of a fuss." He vastly exaggerated a shrug of the shoulders as if to protest that he could not be blamed for the havoc.

Then man began to walk in a semi-circle around the huddled crowd, his steps slow and deliberate, his hands clasped behind his back. "Now then," he said as he walked, "to business." He stopped when he reached one of the gang who had broken in with him. It looked like a woman, with fiery hair all out of place and thick-lensed goggles that left the colour of her eyes and her expression up to the imagination. She extended a hand as the man reached her, in which was held a large steel canister with a thick fuse protruding from the top.



The man with the strange hair snatched up the offered object and plucked a match from one of the pockets in his long coat. He held both up so that the crowd could see them. "I want every single one of you - ladies included - to empty your pockets of all your valuables, and then to get down on your knees."



Nobody moved.



"Need persuading?" The man lowered the match and struck it against the sole of his boot. It sputtered to life and he lifted it again, bringing it level with the hand that held aloft the canister. "Do you understand now?"



Suddenly everyone began moving. The marauders had to run up and down through the crowd several times as money and trinkets were essentially thrown into their greedy hands and pockets. Women wailed in terror as their bracelets, lockets or even their lovely gloves were ripped from them. Men tried to glare down the brigands, but were met with bursts of laughter, fists, or had their valuables forcibly snatched whatever they did.



It took less than three minutes to rob the crowd blind and set everyone on their knees like punished children.



Once the hubbub had settled, the marauders then began to run for the ropes that had allowed them to drop in to the bank. Five men caught hold of the ropes. The woman who had supplied the bomb, grabbed one of the remaining ropes, actively snatching it from her fellow's hand. He went to another rope without complaint, the body of the Executive of the Treasury - dead or unconscious - slung over his shoulder like a sack of loot. Two others who appeared to be women - one not quite a match for the other and her obvious chest - ran to the ropes as well, catching a hold of their comrade's arms so that they could ride up with them.



With a shrill whistle, which must have been some kind of pre-arranged signal, the ropes began to retreat upwards to the ship once more, carrying their hooting passengers with them. All heads turned upwards, watching the seven ropes wind back in with the winches protesting. Slowly, some people climbed back to their feet, possibly deducing that the remaining invaders represented less of a threat now that there were only three of them, and given that their escape route had just disappeared. Expressions of anger were peppered throughout the crowd, as were those still sculpted in fear. Nobody seemed quite recovered from the shock enough to engage with the raiders just yet, though more dared to rise from the floor as the seconds ticked by.



The man with the garish hair seemed aware of this, but did not seem to be fazed in the slightest by it. He smiled disarmingly at the crowd, in a way that seemed almost unhinged. "Well, it has been wonderful doing business with you all," he said pleasantly, "But we really must dash." Taking this line as a cue, the broad man behind him, who was still stood guarding the door, reached out to unbar it. The man with the stark hair, and the other remaining man from his gang, backed up towards the door, hovering beside their large companion. The man with the shocking hair - clearly their leader and organiser of the event - grinned at the crowd inside the bank and bowed with a flourish. "Adios," he called merrily, before turning and dashing out of the door, his companions in hot pursuit and the doors slamming shut with a resounding bang.



The trio dashed out into the street and raced away as fast as their feet would allow them to. The streets bustled with people going about errands or taking advantage of the fine weather for a walk. People had to jump out of the way as the three men rushed down the street, not a one of them wasting a second to care for the people they disturbed in their flight. Women shouted indignantly as the men shoved their way through the crowd, watching them disappear from sight partly out of shock, and partly out of intrigue.



The burly man's hood was thrown back from his head as he ran, long tangled locks of black hair falling out of it and bouncing around a face the colour of reddened wood. He ran after his two companions, the other two being somewhat lighter on their feet than he was. The slender man with the shocking hair leapt spryly over a cluster of barrels blocking the way, the merchant moving them falling to the ground in shock as the strange man leapt over him.



The second man following behind him swerved around the merchant and his barrels, stumbling into a small gaggle of women stood nearby, and dashing off as they began squealing in horror with only the most garbled apology thrown over his shoulder for his impoliteness.



The Native American crashed straight through the lot of them, causing wine to splash everywhere. He did not blink at the damage, or at the horrified shouts of the barrels' owner when he saw what had happened.



The second man glanced back at the unfortunate merchant over his shoulder and snorted in cruel amusement.

The garish man leading them had evidently noticed this too as he slowed his pace enough to draw alongside the burly red-skinned man and grinned up at him. "Some beautiful work back there, Mosi," he said proudly. Clearly he found chaos amusing, even if it was on a small and personal scale.



The man named Mosi resisted the urge to smirk at the compliment, and instead just clapped the man on the back. "Nice spectacle you created, captain," he retorted with a smirk in his voice.



The captain practically beamed with pride.



"Where are we running to, captain?" called the third man, who was behind them both. He did not have the Native American's long stride, or their captain's light frame to help him move faster.



The man they had called the captain pulled ahead of them again and then turned around so that he was running backwards. "To the docks, my fine gentlemen. The only place the old girl has the space to land."



No sooner had he said this than the second man shouted for him to look out. The captain span around neatly on one foot and answered the warning with a rather nasty turn of phrase which one tended to associate with sailors. Ahead of the fleeing men, the narrow street was blocked by a huddle of men who appeared to be town vigilantes.



The town was clearly too poor to finance a genuine lawmen's organisation, so the gathered men were obviously not experts with regards to capturing outlaws. Their weapons were poor, with only blunderbusses between them and each of them looking more like antiques than useable weapons. The men themselves were not so much armoured for combat, as hurriedly dressed in whatever they could find that closely resembled armour. It left them each looking like they were dressed with the contents of a cutlery drawer.



Regardless of the skill or lack thereof that the group had to capture the criminals (and they certainly did not have the power to take the huge red-skinned man prisoner), they had managed to block the way forward.



Still, as much as the group of vigilantes might have believed that they could contend with and even prevail over such seasoned lawbreakers, not a one of the raiders slowed their pace. If anything, Mosi was sure he saw the captain speed up as he ran towards the clustered group.



At the last possible second, the garish captain darted sideways, and disappeared down an alley to the left of the main street. The second man copied this, though instead of running down a convenient side street, the nearest of which was behind the vigilante line, he darted inside a small ramshackle shop on the side of the road and the audible screams of the occupants followed him as he launched himself out of a window. He landed in the alleyway, much to the surprise of the vigilantes, and was running down it before he had even regained his feet properly.



Mosi, however, was not a man of subtlety or one with a great reserve of grace to employ in such neat evasive manoeuvres. Instead, he employed the tactic he usually did, which was to crash straight through the obstacle in front of him. He was secretly a little disappointed that he did not send the men flying as he had done to the barrels earlier, but nonetheless he managed to knock enough out of the way to pass without trouble. He paused for a single second, unsure whether to keep running straight towards the dock, or to give chase to his friend down the alley.



His decision was made for him, as one of the vigilantes headed down the alley himself, shouting for the brigand ahead of him to stop and surrender to the law. Mosi took off after him in an instant. It was never going to be a long chase, given that Mosi took three steps for every two of the smaller man's, if not more. He caught up to the town vigilante and, rather like a bored cat, knocked him aside with a single vicious and powerful swipe to the side of the head. The man crumpled against the wall of the house that boxed them into the alley, blood leaking from the side of his head that had made contact with the stonework.

Mosi stepped over the body callously and kept running. He could clearly see his friend's back a few feet ahead. "Jason!" His call was heard and the smaller man swerved as close to the wall as he could, his arm stuck out as if he were hailing a hansom cab. As Mosi caught up with him, he grabbed him by the arm and swung the smaller man up onto his back.



Jason clung to the larger man's shoulder, clamping one arm around his neck and desperately trying to find something to use to secure his feet. After a brief struggle and a snarky complaint from the larger man that he could not breathe with an arm blocking his windpipe, Jason managed to get a good grip on Mosi's shoulders and planted his feet against the man's belt. It was difficult to stay on such a tenuous perch, however.



A bullet struck a hanging beam over Jason's head, cutting short his concerns about staying on his mount, and replacing them with concerns about staying alive. He saw with a glance backwards that the vigilantes had recovered from Mosi's bull-like charge, and had given chase as well as they could. They had probably closed the gap when Jason was trying to work out how best to hold on to Mosi's back, and his accidental choking of the other man had slowed their pace for a short time.



Thinking quickly, Jason lifted himself so that he could place his left foot on Mosi's right shoulder. He clung to the material of the Native American's shirt tighter as the strange position made it even harder to hold on. "Lend me a hand, big fella!" Obediently, Mosi reached up and clamped a hand over his foot. Jason twisted awkwardly, pulling himself up higher and managing to get his other foot on the larger man's other shoulder, which he duly took a secure grip on. He ended up standing on the man's shoulders, but having to crouch to avoid a low-hanging beam knocking him clean off.



He held his arms out, trying to get used to the pitch and roll of his mount now that his centre of gravity had shifted, and he was higher from the cobbles. He reached down to either side of his waistcoat where there were sewn special holsters, and whipped out a pair of pistols. Contrary to the expectations people had of pirates having weapons hurriedly thrown together from whatever they could scavenge, these were elegant double-barrelled pistols with a coppery sheen that looked so well cared for that it could have come from a high end gunsmith's shop.



They certainly did the damage one would expect from an expensive pistol bought in a fancy shop. The man fired with deadly accuracy, despite the rocky ride he was being treated to. Each shot found a mark and knocked the victims onto their backs, armour blasted open and skin peppered with bullet fragments. As one pistol fired, the other was re-engaged, causing a continuous cycle of bullets firing at the pursuers. Unfortunately the guns ran out of bullets too quickly for Jason's liking, instead just emitting disgruntled clicks. He was somewhat pacified to look back and find that only one of the vigilantes had escaped unscathed and seen fit to continue the chase.



Sniggering at the idiot's optimism, Jason reached back carefully and patted the Native American lightly on the head. "Last one on our tail," he informed. "Show him what your legs can do." Mosi did not respond verbally, but gave a wry snort and picked up the pace almost immediately. He leant forward, legs covering more ground with each stride. Jason adjusted his balance, then carefully lowered himself so that he was sitting, rather than standing on Mosi's shoulder, and took a firm grip on his shirt with one hand. He holstered his pistols and with his free hand gave the vigilante a condescending wave as the distance between them increased. The man's face was red, though whether from the exertion or from anger, it was hard to tell.



Jason tried to shift his weight carefully, and managed to twist around enough to see where they were going. They rushed out of the claustrophobic alleyway and back onto the main road at last, litter kicked up as they raced away. Luckily for them with no twists and turns in the alley to confuse them, they had not gone at all off course, and had emerged at the bottom of the same hill they had been running down when the vigilantes had first intervened.



The stone of the docks was less than twenty yards away. The huge airship that the raiders called home, was hovering over the docks, easily forty feet overhead. The dock workers that were on duty were running to and fro, clearly panicked by the ship and clueless as to what to do now that it was here.



"Do you see the captain?" Mosi asked as he made a beeline for the ship, whose large fins were flapping ever so slightly in the ocean breeze like the sails on terrestrial ships.



Jason was about to answer that he did not, but just as he was about to say so, there was a commotion from off to the left, and the captain rushed out of an alley and back onto the main road ahead of them. He could not have moved faster if the seat of his trousers had been alight. The reason probably had something to do with the half a dozen vigilantes rushing along behind him, all waving blunderbusses in a very threatening manner.



Mosi groaned and hurried to catch up to the captain.



"Not much of an escape, was it?" Jason remarked sarcastically as they drew level with the captain. His quip earned him a rude gesture in return. He let go of the Native American's back and scrambled a little as he landed less gracefully than he had hoped. He ran along at the back of the group, unable to match the speed of the spry captain, or the stride of the lumbering native american. Without stopping, he reached for the slimmer pistol that he kept on his belt and span around, prepared to fire on the group that was still refusing to abandon the chase.



He swiftly decided against this action. This had nothing to do with the fact that the pistol only had one shot in it, because the design necessitated the gunpowder be replaced manually every time it was fired, or that there was more than just one vigilante. Jason had never been one to let numbers cow him. It was the proximity of the pursuers that had him start running again without firing. If he wanted to fire accurately, then he needed to stop and aim, and he likely would not have had the time to do so before a vigilante stepped on his toes.



Jason broke into a sprint, which finally allowed him to draw level with Mosi. "We need to move faster than this," he exclaimed between hurried breaths. The cobblestone street turned to perfectly cemented masonry as the three of them made it to the docks.



The captain pulled a familiar object out of his coat and waved it a little. "I have a better idea!" He fumbled with the canister in his hand as he ferreted around in his pocket with his spare hand. He swiftly drew out a match which he struck against Jason's shoulder - ignoring his 'ow' as he did - and lit the fuse to the thing with a grin of unrestrained glee.



He dropped the match carelessly, it probably falling into the water and fizzling out. He gripped the canister in both hands and then catapulted it over his head without even pausing to aim or check whether it flew anywhere close to the target. "Fire in the hole!" he cried merrily.



Jason ducked his head reflexively as the bomb sailed overhead. "Shit," he swore. He shot a look over his shoulder to see that the bomb land just a few feet ahead of the group chasing them. The vigilantes all shuddered to a halt and ran back the way they had come, every eye fixed on the fizzing bomb with horror. "What the hell were you thinking?" The blonde-haired man demanded, turning back to the strange man running with him.



The captain made a face at him and Jason snorted. "Oh of course - you weren't thinking. How could I have thought otherwise?"

The captain shook his head. "I need to teach you better," he said casually, before running ahead. He skidded to a stop in the shadow cast by the body of the hovering airship. "Let go the ladder, boys!"



Right on cue, a rope ladder was hurled over the side of the ship. It tumbled down, unravelling as it came, and splashed into the water beneath the dock. Mosi was the next to reach the ladder and grab hold of it. Jason, following just a few steps behind, jumped onto the large man's back again and climbed over him, getting onto the ladder ahead of him. He scurried up as fast as he could, ignoring the mean name that the Native American hurled at his back.



The captain glanced back at the spot where his bomb had landed. By now the fuse had completely burnt out, and the explosive's true nature as a fake was revealed. The vigilantes had caught on to this, and were staring at the dud bomb in surprise. The more sharp-witted among them had caught sight of their fleeing quarry and resumed the chase, but the pink-haired man just shook his head when he saw it. He took a hold of the ladder and shouted for it to be hauled in.



The squeaking of an old winch accompanied the ladder being dragged back up. The captain's feet were gently lifted off of the stone of the docks and he made a crude salute at the man who was at the head of the group still in pursuit. It was clear that even he would not make it in time.



Just to be sure of their escape, while casually whistling a bar from a shanty tune, the captain hooked his dangling foot into one of the rungs below him, and flicked the lower portion of the ladder into the air. He caught one of the other wooden bars with a neat snap of the wrist, lifting the ladder out of reach of all but the highest jumper. He leaned down towards the man stopped below them, and stuck his tongue out to its full extent. He did not even flinch when the man lifted his blunderbuss and took aim on his face. The captain merely whistled, and grinned as he heard the answering rustle of six outlaws appearing in the open cargo bay doorway with loaded and ready guns all trained on the unfortunate man below.



The man lowered his weapons sheepishly.



The captain practically roared with laughter as the rope ladder reached the open door, and he was able to roll neatly through it. He immediately popped back to his feet, waving merrily to the man as the ship's engines roared thunderously with life, and the creaking vessel turned away. He was even sure to blow a kiss, just to add insult to injury.



As the ship pitched upwards sharply and began to rise as swiftly as she was able, the crew who had hauled the ladder back up, led the troublesome trio back inside. Jason was clutching at a stitch in his side and was sure to sit down as soon as he entered the bridge. He flopped to the floor and puffed his cheeks tiredly. "Well, that was eventful," he remarked.



Mosi hovered in the doorway before, in response to a wave of the hand from the captain, he moved off in the opposite direction. He was rarely out of the engine room anyway, and the ship would need all available hands down there if she was going to make the quick getaway that all her passengers wanted.



The captain waltzed calmly into the centre of the room where a large circular podium stood with a map spread across its surface. He rubbed his hands together briskly. "Right, firstly would someone ensure that the fancy man from the treasury is taken down to our surgeon - we can drop him off in Panama. Secondly, I need someone to start bringing up the spoils to me for inventory. Thirdly, everybody pat yourselves on the back for yet another job well done - spectacular in fact." He grinned broadly and gave himself a light tap on the shoulder. Nobody followed suit, and a few heads were shaken in answer to the man's gentle lunacy.

"A simple robbery, you said," the light-haired Jason remarked, his scathing comment aimed squarely at the captain. "Just a routine heist, you said. No one will even give us trouble."



The captain clapped a hand against his heart as if offended at being accused of lying, and sat on the very edge of the map podium. Jason snorted and shook his head.



"Well if you could run at a decent speed then you wouldn't have had any trouble," the pink-haired man remarked lightly. He got no answer.



The woman stood on the other side of the map podium, who had dark skin and hair as black as jet, extended a well-worn black tricorn to the captain with a wry smirk. The captain beamed like a child and swept the thing onto his head happily. "How kind of you, Ratchet. Now then, before we discuss net profit, I want to make a quick visit to Florida."



The man over at the helm, who was pulling levers in no particular order, and with no visible consequence, span around and leant back against the wheel he used to steer. "Oh really?" He adjusted his thin glasses and scratched at his head as if he had fleas. "And what is in Florida that you need to see so badly."



"I'll tell you what's not in Florida - a bunch of angry Spaniards who want to imprison me for what I just did."



This claim was met with good-natured sniggers, and the man at the helm duly turned back to the wheel and set about pulling levers and switches again. The captain reached up to adjust his hat - leaning it slightly to the left. He then tilted it right, before settling on left after all. The ship juddered and tilted to one side, causing him to slide from his perch, but he landed as neatly as if he had stood up of his own volition. He skipped to the door. "If anyone needs me, I will be in my cabin, doodling in my log." He clasped his hands behind his back and marched out into the corridor, whistling loudly to himself.



The crew watched his exit, then turned to each other, unsure how best to respond to their captain's eccentricity. Jason groaned from the floor. "One of these days, after a job, I'll get the congratulatory rum I'm owed as his first mate."



The man at the helm barked with laughter. "Don't hold your breath, Jase." He grinned at the tired man and promptly span the wheel hard to the side, causing the ship to bank sideways. Jason tumbled across the floor, swearing as he went, much to the amusement of the rest of crew.



His unpalatable protests could be heard all the way down in the captain's cabin, where the strange man who owned the airship was sat, his feet up on a desk, and a battered old map open on his lap. He listened to the noise of his crew and ship for a moment before swigging from a glass bottle. He then rocked back in his chair with a contended sigh and turned his attention to the map in front of him.



The map was old and made of faded parchment that looked too crispy with age to withstand being handled frequently. The captain had owned it for a while, but had been about to give up on it when it had proved too obscure to use. He studied the drawing of land and pursed his lips as he read over the many clues scratchily written at odd angles around the edge of the paper in poor handwriting and even poorer spelling. With an index finger he traced a few lines of old ink.



"X marks the spot, huh?" he mumbled to himself in a tone of sarcasm. It was hardly as easy as all that. He definitely preferred the kind of treasure that could be found in unguarded pockets or behind easy to unlock doors.



Even so, what kept him interested was the question of the recognition for the act. Realistically he also had to consider that the creaky old ship was probably not in the best condition for numerous more raids on the Caribbean shipping lanes. It was a sad thought, but true enough. Treasure seemed a relatively safe source of funds however, so it was not all bad news.



The captain tapped his boots against the table thoughtfully as he slowly rolled the map up again. It was not any clearer than before, but it made sense to study it frequently.



"Perhaps a holiday in Dover will do us some good," the garish man mused aloud. He pulled lightly at a string around his neck (one of many) and twisted it between a forefinger and thumb just to reassure himself that the trinket was still where it should be. Perhaps things would take a turn for the better from here.



He chuckled and rocked his chair forwards again. His spare hand reached for paper and he scooted the chair forwards. He snatched up a half-blunt pencil in his fingers and began to make some rough notes on the treasure hidden somewhere on the unmarked map.



It was just a question of being patient.