Hand me a pick, someone."
"When he makes a swing with that, the point goes in solid and sticks.
"Right! It is a log," he announces.
Killam tests it, and he says it's a log, too.
"An old palmetto trunk," says he, proddin' at it. "Two of them, one
laid on the other. No, three. I say, that's funny. Let's clear away
all of this stuff."
So we goes at it, all three at once, and inside of fifteen minutes we
can see what looks like the side of a little log cabin.
"If this was out in Wisconsin," says Old Hickory, "I should say we'd
found somebody's root cellar. But who would build such a thing in
Florida?"
"Come on," says Killam, his voice sort of shrill and quivery. "I have
one of the logs loose. Now pry here with your picks, everybody.
Together, now! It's coming! Once more! There! Now the next one
above. Oh, put your weight on it, Mr. Ellins. Get a fresh hold. Try
her now. It's giving! Again. Harder. Look out for your toes! And
let's have that light here, Miss Verona. Flash it into this hole.
Isn't that a--a--"
"It's a barrel," says Vee.
"Water butt," says Killam. "An old ship's water butt. There are the
staves of another, fallen apart. And look! Will--you--look, all of
you!"
Would we? Say, we was crowded around that black hole in the mound as
thick as noon lunchers at a pie counter.
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