Read The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar and Six More for Free Online Page B

addresses, no car number, no nothin ," he
said.

    "You're brilliant!"

    "I think you'd better pull in off this main road as soon as
possible," he said. "Then we'd better build a little bonfire and burn
these books."

    "You're a fantastic fellow," I exclaimed.

    "Thank you, guv'nor ," he said. "It's
always nice to be appreciated."

A Note About the Next Story

    In 1946. more than thirty
years ago, I was still unmarried and living with my mother. I was making a fair
income by writing two short stories a year. Each of them took four months to
complete, and fortunately there were people both at home and abroad who were
willing to buy them.

    One morning in April of that year. I read in the
newspaper about a remarkable find of Roman silver. It had been discovered four
years before by a ploughman near Mildenhall , in the
county of Suffolk, but the discovery had for some reason been kept secret until
then. The newspaper article said it was the greatest treasure ever found in the
British Isles, and it had now been acquired by the British Museum. The name of
the ploughman was given as Gordon Butcher.

    True stories about the finding of really big treasure send shivers of
electricity all the way down my legs to the soles of my feet. The moment I read
the story, I leapt up from my chair without finishing my breakfast and shouted
good-bye to my mother and rushed out to my car. The car was a nine-year-old Wolseley , and I called it "The Hard Black Slinker ". It went well but not very fast.

    Mildenhall was about a hundred and twenty miles from
my home, a tricky cross-country trip along twisty toads and country lanes. I
got there at lunchtime, and by asking at the local police station, I found the
small house where Gordon Butcher lived with his family. He was at home having
his lunch when I knocked on his door.

    I asked him if he would mind talking to me about how he found the treasure.

    "No, thank you," he said. "I've had enough of reporters. I don't
want to see another reporter for the rest of my life."

    "I'm not a reporter," I told him. "I'm a short-story writer and
I sell my work to magazines. They pay good money." I went on to say that
if he would tell me exactly how he found the treasure then I would write a
truthful story about it. And if I was lucky enough to sell it, I would split
the money equally with him.

    In the end, he agreed to talk to me. We sat for several hours in his kitchen,
and he told me an enthralling story. When he had finished, I paid a visit to
the other man in the affair, an older fellow called Ford. Ford wouldn't talk to
me and closed the door in my face. But by then I had my story and I set out for
home.

    The next morning, I went up to the British Museum in London to see the treasure
that Gordon Butcher had found. It was fabulous. I got the shivers all over
again just from looking at it.

    I wrote the story as truthfully as I possibly could and sent it off to America.
It was bought by a magazine called the Saturday
Evening Post , and I was well paid. When the money arrived, I sent exactly
half of it to Gordon Butcher in Mildenhall .

    One week later, I received a letter from Mr Butcher
written upon what must have been a page torn from a child's school
exercise-book. It said, ". . .you could have
knocked me over with a feather when I saw your cheque .
It was lovely. I want to thank you. . ."

    Here is the story almost exactly as it was written thirty years ago. I've
changed it very little. I've simply toned down some of the more flowery
passages and taken out a number of superfluous adjectives and unnecessary
sentences.

The Mildenhall Treasure

Around seven o'clock in the morning, Gordon Butcher got out of bed and switched
on the light. He walked barefoot to the window and drew back the curtains and
looked out.

    This was January and it was still dark, but he could tell there hadn't been any
snow in the night.

    "That wind," he said aloud to his wife. "Just listen to that
wind."

    His wife was out of bed