“No, indeed it ain’t. It’s hid in mighty particular places, Huck⁠—sometimes on islands, sometimes in rotten chests under the end of a limb of an old dead tree, just where the shadow falls at midnight; but mostly under the floor in ha’nted houses.”

“Who hides it?”

“Why, robbers, of course⁠—who’d you reckon? Sunday-school sup’rintendents?”

“I don’t know. If ’twas mine I wouldn’t hide it; I’d spend it and have a good time.”

“So would I. But robbers don’t do that way. They always hide it and leave it there.”

“Don’t they come after it any more?”