"Very well," says Old Hickory. "It's a good many years since I did any
excavating, but I think I can still swing a pick."
Say, he could; that is, for a five-minute stretch. And while he's
restin' up I tackles it. I didn't last so long, either. Rupert,
though, comes out strong. He makes the sand fly at a great rate. Vee
stands by, holdin' an electric torch, while Auntie watches from the
boat.
"We're makin' quite a hole in it, Mr. Ellins," says I, sort of
encouragin'.
"It is the usual thing to do, I believe," says he, "before owning up
that you've been fooled. Here, Killam, let me have another go at that."
He don't do it because he's excited about it, but just because it's his
turn. In fact, we'd all got to about that stage. We'd shoveled out a
wagon load or two of old roots and sand and rotten shells without
uncoverin' so much as a rusty nail, and it looked like we might keep on
until mornin' with the same amazin' success. Considerin' that we was
half beaten before we started, we'd done a pretty fair job. It was
just a question now of how soon somebody'd have nerve enough to make a
motion that we quit. That's when we had our first little flutter.
"Huh!" says Old Hickory, jabbin' in with his spade. "Must have struck
a log.
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