Mike Dixon

„Only these insects.‟ Humphrey waved a hand at the
mouse-sized moths dragging their huge abdomens over
the table. „I believe they‟re called bogong moths. If my
memory serves me right, their caterpillars bore holes in
trees. They‟re the witchetty grubs the Aboriginals eat. I
had some once and they‟re rather good.‟
They talked about the moths, bush walking, Chinese
writing and ancient Chinese weapons. David clearly enjoyed
his company.
„Would you like a beer?‟
„That sounds an excellent idea.‟
David went to an icebox and returned with two cans. He
pulled off the rings and handed one to Humphrey.
„Good diving!‟
Humphrey raised his can and figured it was time to stop
chattering and ask questions. He took a sip and stared at
the young man.
„Are you sure someone‟s not having a bit of a joke?‟
„How do you mean, Humph?‟
„Well. All this talk of Chinese secret societies and buried
treasure. It reminds me of those adventure books I read
when I was a boy.‟
„Humph, the treasure is for real.‟ David looked sur-
prised. „My Uncle Charlie made a fortune out of it. He had
a salvage boat. He brought up gold, diamonds that sort of
thing from ships sunk during the Second World War.‟
Humphrey questioned him about the ships and was impressed.
David knew a great deal about the Pacific War.
He‟d evidently learnt it from the mysterious Sue Lynne and
the equally mysterious Uncle Charlie.
He tried another approach, asking why Charlie hadn‟t
hunted for Tong Yee‟s gold. Again, he got an immediate
reply.
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