Chapter Two.
The Roman Camp.
It was about a week after this that the children one day persuaded Miss Grey to go home across Rumborough Common after a walk. She never liked to do so, because it was a lonely, desolate place frequented by gypsies and tramps, but the boys had a special reason for wishing it. There were the remains of what was called a Roman camp there, which, they felt sure, was full of strange and curious things—coins, medals, bones, beads, all manner of desirable objects to add to their collection for the museum. They had never been lucky enough to find any, but hope did not forsake them, and as often as they could persuade Miss Grey to cross the common, they lingered behind the others as much as they possibly could and kept an eager look-out.
Unfortunately, Miss Grey never walked so fast as in that particular spot, and was always urging them to quicken their pace, so that it was possible to miss many valuable curiosities. Otherwise, with time before them, and the aid of a spade and a pickaxe, Ambrose and David felt that they could have unearthed treasures which would have filled their museum easily. To-day they were so far behind that Miss Grey and their sisters were almost out of sight. Ambrose had been giving David a little solid information about the Romans, their wars, customs, and personal appearance, when he was suddenly interrupted by his brother.
“I suppose,” said David, “you forgot the museum when you told Pennie you’d give your money every week?”
Ambrose did not want to be reminded of that promise, which he had already begun to regret; besides, this question showed that David had not been attending to the Romans.
“Why, of course,” he said impatiently; “we sha’n’t buy things for the museum. We shall just find them by degrees.”
“I don’t believe we shall ever get enough things before the winter,” replied David, with his eyes fixed on the short dry turf at his feet. “Oh, look!” he exclaimed suddenly, “there’s a funny snail.”
Ambrose stooped to examine it. It was an empty white shell with curious black stripes on it.
“It’s a Roman snail,” he said rising with a superior air. “You know they used to eat them.”
David stood with his short legs wide apart, his hands in his pockets, his grave eyes fixed on the shell in his brother’s hand.
“Did the Romans bring it?” he asked. “How very old it must be!”
“How stupid you are!” said Ambrose. “Of course I meant they brought some like it, and then there got to be more and more snails—like Sir Walter Raleigh and the potato.”
“It’ll do nicely for the museum, won’t it?” said David, “and we’ll write a label for it with ‘Roman snail, found near Rumborough Camp.’” By this time it was no longer possible to avoid seeing that Miss Grey was waving her parasol in the far distance. Probably one of the girls would be sent back to fetch them if they did not go at once, so with the snail carefully secured they set off towards her at a quick trot.
“Don’t you wish,” jerked out Ambrose in short sentences as he ran, “that father would bring us—with a spade—and dig—and find things?”
“It would be splendid,” gasped David. “Do you think he would?”
“I say,” called out Ambrose, without replying to this, as they got near to the others, “guess what we’ve found.”
“A skull,” said Nancy at once, mentioning the thing which the boys wanted most for their museum.
“How could it be a skull, silly?” said Ambrose scornfully, “when I’m holding it inside my hand?”
More guesses followed, but in vain, and at last the Roman snail was displayed to the wondering gaze of Pennie and Nancy. Not that they had any part or lot in matters concerning the museum. That belonged to the boys alone, and was jealously guarded as their very own. Ever since Ambrose had been with his father to the museum at Nearminster he and David had made up their minds to have one, and had begun with great fervour to collect objects for it. Other interests, however, had come in the way, and the museum languished until one day Mrs Hawthorne had offered them a tiny empty room at the top of the house for their own. It was not much bigger than a cupboard, and had a very sloping roof, but to the boys it seemed a palace.
What a place for the museum! They at once set to work to put up shelves, to write labels, and to give it as much as possible the appearance of the one at Nearminster. Ambrose hit upon an idea which added a good deal to this. He printed the words “To the Museum” on some cards, with an arrow to point the way, and when these were pasted on the staircase wall they had a capital effect. But though it began to have quite a business-like air, the museum was still woefully empty. Even when spread out to their widest extent, it was impossible to make three fossils, a few birds’ eggs, and one dried snake’s skin look otherwise than meagre even in a small room. The boys arranged these over and over again in different positions, and wrote very large labels for them, but they were disturbed by the consciousness that it was not an interesting collection, and that it must be increased before the 1st of November. This would be their mother’s birthday, and they then intended to invite her to see the museum and to declare it open.
All this, therefore, made Rumborough Common, with its store of hidden treasure, an unusually interesting place, and it was almost too tantalising to be hurried past the camp with only a longing glance. Ambrose especially, since his visit to the Nearminster museum, had been fired with ambition to make a thorough search. Visions of strange-shaped daggers and spears, bronze cups and bowls with mysterious inscriptions on them, rusty ornaments, and other relics floated continually before him. There they were, all waiting hidden below, ready to fill the empty shelves of the museum. If only father would consent to go with him and David, and let them poke about as much as they liked. That would be the only plan, and after much consideration and many talks together both the boys came to the conclusion that the vicar must be asked. Who was to ask him? The question was as usual settled by casting lots, and it fell to Ambrose.
Now, unluckily, the vicar was at this time specially busy. There was to be a clerical meeting at Nearminster at which he had promised to read a paper, and the preparation of this filled up all his spare time. At such moments it required courage to knock at his door and ask questions, and Ambrose drew back a little. Urged, however, by David, and by the thoughts of the treasure, he at length made the effort. Directly he got into the room he saw by all the great books his father had open on the table, and by the frown on his brow, that he was deeply engrossed. He looked up, certainly, and seemed to listen, but he was evidently very far-away from anything connected with Rumborough Common. Gathering, however, that he was asked to go somewhere, he looked back at his papers and shook his head.
“My dear boy,” he said, “I will listen to you another time, but none of you are to come and ask me questions just now. Run away to your mother.”
His pen began to scratch away over the paper at a dreadful rate, and Ambrose returned dejectedly to tell David of his failure. They felt quite cast-down by it. Mother and father were both going away next week. They were invited to stay at Miss Unity’s house during the clerical meeting, taking Dickie with them, and would not be home for four days. This would make a terrible long delay, and it seemed impossible to wait all that time before asking their father again. Yet what could be done?
Ambrose felt the disappointment more severely than David. His mind was so fixed on carrying out his idea that he brooded over it by day and even dreamed of it at night. Often he saw the shelves of the museum crowded with all his heart could desire in the way of curious and ancient objects. But this did not advance matters at all. They remained in the cold light of day as bare as ever, with great spaces between the few specimens, and by degrees, as he gazed mournfully at them, a thought began to take shape in his mind and to become more and more enticing.
Why should not he and David go to Rumborough Camp alone? Certainly he had an impression that it would be wrong, but as far as he could remember it had never been distinctly forbidden, so what harm could there be in it? He tried to remember if his father or mother had ever said, “You are not to go alone to Rumborough Common.” No. Try as hard as he could he remembered no such words. In his heart of hearts Ambrose was conscious all the time that if known such a thing would not be allowed, for he and David never went beyond the fields round the house unless Miss Grey or nurse were with them: they had occasionally been as far as Farmer Hatchard’s with a message, but that was the extreme limit.
He would not, however, let his mind dwell on this, for the expedition began to appear so attractive, so bold, daring, and altogether delightful, that all other considerations seemed dull and tame. He was almost tempted to undertake it quite alone, but a little reflection showed him that a companion would be decidedly useful. Rumborough Common was a desolate and somewhat alarming place, and besides he might find too many valuable curiosities to carry home by himself. David’s advice and help must certainly, therefore, be asked.
What would he think of it? Ambrose felt a little bit doubtful. Not that David wanted either courage or enterprise for such an undertaking, and if once started upon it he would be sure to carry it through with undaunted perseverance, but—he was so matter-of-fact. He would certainly say at once that it would be against rules, for he had a tiresome way of looking things straight in the face, instead of turning his eyes a little to one side when it was more convenient or pleasant to do so.
At any rate, he must be asked to go; but Ambrose went on to consider that this need not be done until Monday after their father and mother had gone to Nearminster. That would be two days hence, which would give him time to think over his plan and make preparations, so that all might be ready to meet any difficulties from David. Ambrose began to feel very important when he had settled all this in his mind; it was such an immense idea that it was most difficult to keep it all within himself, and he went about with such an air of superiority to daily events that the other children knew at once he had a secret.
“You look just like Dickie’s bantam hen when she has laid an egg,” said Nancy; “but I sha’n’t try to guess what you’re thinking about. It’s sure to have something to do with that stupid museum.”
Ambrose meanwhile began his preparations. He and David both possessed garden spades, which would be useful; but the ground on Rumborough Common was hard and chalky, and he felt sure that they would require a pickaxe as well. Andrew had one, but he was surly about lending his tools, and there was no chance of getting at them, for he kept them carefully locked up, and never left any lying about in the garden.
“I say, Andrew,” said Ambrose in a careless manner, “I wish you’d just lend me your pickaxe, please; just to break up some hard ground.”
“You’re not man enough to use it, Master Ambrose,” said Andrew. “It’s too heavy for ye. There’s a nice light hoe now, I’d let ye have that for a bit.”
“That wouldn’t do,” said Ambrose. “It’s very hard ground. A hoe would be of no use at all. I want the pickaxe particularly.”
Andrew shook his head.
“Can’t loan ye the pickaxe, young master. You’d be doing yourself a mischief;” and he took up his barrow and went his way.
So that was of no use. Ambrose began to long for Monday to come that he might tell David and have his help and advice. It was an odd thing to wish for his father and mother to go away. They seldom left home, and when they did there was a general outcry and lamentation among the children, because it was so dull without them. Yet now Ambrose felt it would be a decided relief when they had gone to Nearminster, for then he might unburden himself of his great secret.
The time came at last. Ruby, the grey horse, stood waiting with the waggonette at the door. Andrew sat on the box, ready to drive his master and mistress into Nearminster. He looked quite a different Andrew on these occasions from the one who worked in the garden, because he wore his best coat and hat, which were a size too large for him, and a roomy pair of white gloves.
The children were all in the hall watching the departure.
“Don’t stay longer than you can help, mother,” said Pennie; “it’s horrid when you’re away.”
Mrs Hawthorne kissed them all and said good-bye. She hoped they would be quite obedient to Miss Grey while she was away, and Ambrose thought she looked specially at him as she spoke. He flushed a little as he joined with the others in promising to remember this.
“Now, then,” said the vicar coming out of his study, “are we ready? Where’s Dickie?”
Dickie came steadily down-stairs just then, step by step, rather encumbered in her movements by a large Noah’s ark, which she clutched to her breast. She was calmly triumphant. Nurse followed her, still suggesting all manner of other toys as more convenient to carry—“a pretty doll now”—but Dickie was firm. The Noah’s ark was her last birthday present; she must and would take it to Nearminster, and moreover she would carry it down-stairs herself. So it had to go; but the moment she was lifted with it into the waggonette she pulled out the sliding lid in the roof to find the efilant, as she called it, and most of the animals tumbled out. This made it necessary for all the children to throw themselves into the carriage to pick them up, so that there was a good deal of delay in starting. At last, however, all was really settled, and they drove off, Ambrose and David rushing on in front, as usual, to open the gate and scream out the last good-byes.
“Remember to be good boys,” said their mother, leaning towards them as she passed; and again Ambrose felt as though she were speaking specially to him. He was not going to be a good boy. That he knew, but he would not think about it. It was pleasanter to fix his thoughts on all the advantages to be gained if David would only agree to his proposal, and make no awkward objections. He would tell him that very evening after tea, when they were going to fix a new shelf in the museum. Both the boys had been taught the use of saw and plane by the village carpenter, and were quite used to doing odd jobs for themselves. David in particular excelled in anything requiring neatness of finish, and took great pride in the fittings of the museum, which he was continually adding to and altering. The shelves were made of any bits of wood the boys had been able to get, so that at present they were all of different colours, and did not please him. He had it in his mind to ask Andrew for some white paint, with which he could produce a very superior effect, and indeed he was far more engrossed just now with the fittings of the museum than with objects to be put into it.
Armed with a large hammer, which he wielded with great skill and determination for so small a boy, he set to work in the museum directly after tea. Ambrose looked on listlessly. How should he introduce the subject with which his mind was full? There was certainly no room for it just now between the energetic blows which David was dealing, as he fastened up the new shelf into its place. At last he stopped and fell back a little to look at his work.
“Is that straight?” he asked.
“It’s straight enough,” answered Ambrose moodily, “but I don’t see much good in putting it up.”
David turned round with a face of wonder. “We must have shelves,” he said.
“But we haven’t got anything to put on them,” replied Ambrose. “It looks silly to have them all empty.”
David looked rather mournful.
“Of course they’d be much better full,” he agreed; “but what can we do? How can we get things?”
“Isn’t it a pity,” said Ambrose, “that we couldn’t ask father to take us to Rumborough? We could find enough there to fill the museum easily in half an hour.”
David nodded and sighed.
“Why shouldn’t we go alone?” said Ambrose, making a bold plunge. “I know the way.” He looked full at his brother.
David did not seem at all startled. He merely said, as he put his hammer into the tool-box—“Miss Grey wouldn’t let us.”
“But,” continued Ambrose, feeling it easier now that he had begun, “suppose we didn’t ask her?”
David’s attention was at last stirred. He turned his blue eyes gravely towards Ambrose.
“Father and mother wouldn’t like that,” he said.
Ambrose was quite ready for this objection. “Well,” he said, “we don’t know whether they would or not, because we can’t ask them now.”
“They wouldn’t,” repeated David decidedly.
“Mother would like the museum to be full,” continued Ambrose; “we know that. And we can’t get things anywhere else. She never said we were not to go to Rumborough alone.”
David sat cross-legged on the floor beside his tool-box in an attitude of the deepest thought. The idea began to be attractive, but he had not the least doubt that it was wrong.
“We know, all the same, that she wouldn’t let us go if we did ask her,” he said at last.
Ambrose felt that it was time to strike a decided blow.
“Well,” he said, with the air of one who has made up his mind, “I shall go—and of course you needn’t if you’re afraid. I shall bring home the things and put my name on all the labels, because they’ll all belong to me. It’ll scarcely be your museum at all.”
David’s face fell. A vision rose before him of Ambrose returning from Rumborough laden with antiquities, and writing his name large upon each. He, David, would have no right to any of them. Besides, how could he miss the intense joy of digging in Rumborough Camp, of hearing his spade strike with a hollow “clink” against some iron casket or rusty piece of armour? Perhaps they might even be lucky enough to find a skull! It was too much to resist.
“I’ll come,” he said slowly. “I know it’s wrong, but I’ll come. And I’m not a bit afraid, so you needn’t think that.”
This settled, they continued to talk over the details of the expedition—the time, the tools, and so on. Here, as Ambrose had hoped, David proved of much service. He fixed at once on the best hour to start. It must be quite early in the morning, between five and six o’clock, so that they might be there and back before they were missed.
“We can get out by the garden door,” he said; “and if they do see us coming back it won’t matter much, because we shall have got the things.”
David further suggested that a sack would be useful to bear home the treasure, laid a deep plan for the capture of Andrew’s pickaxe, and threw himself by degrees heart and soul into the project.
Ambrose had not the least fear now that he would draw back or relax his efforts. He knew that once David had made up his mind he would prove a stout support all the way through, and this was a great relief, for he began to see that there were dangers attending the expedition, and would not have gone alone on any account. It occurred to him, especially when he was in bed and it was quite dark, that Rumborough Common was a favourite haunt of gypsies, tramps, and all sorts of lawless wandering people.
In old days it had been a noted spot for highwaymen, and though Ambrose liked to read about them and their daring exploits, he shivered to think of meeting them in person alone. It was some comfort to remember that there were no highwaymen now, but there were plenty of perils left to think of and make him uncomfortable, and at such times he half regretted having planned the expedition at all. Now, however, he could fall back on the thought that David was going too, and there was such support in this that it lost half its terrors.
On the evening before the day fixed for the expedition all was ready. The pickaxe, secured in one of Andrew’s unguarded moments, two spades, and a large sack lay hidden in the thick ivy which covered the wall near the garden gate. Nothing remained but to wake early enough the next morning, before anyone was up, and creep out unobserved. The person most to be feared was Andrew, who had an awkward habit of coming to his work at all sorts of odd hours. The boys were inclined to doubt sometimes if he ever went to bed, for he seemed to know exactly what kind of weather it had been all night. However that must be risked, although it would be most undesirable to meet him with the pickaxe in their possession.
Ambrose went to bed in a fever of excitement, with a mind firmly fixed on keeping his eyes wide open until morning, for that was the only way to be sure of being awake at the right time. It depended on him alone, for David was such a profound sleeper that he could not be relied on at all: it would most likely be very difficult even to rouse him at the proper hour. Very soon, from the little bed next to him, Ambrose heard the deep regular breathing, which showed that he was in the land of dreams. How could he sleep on such an exciting occasion?
Hour after hour sounded from the old church tower; shadows from the sprays of ivy outside danced on the window-blind in the moonlight; now and then a dog barked a long way off, and was answered by a nearer one. What a long, long while the night lasted if you were not asleep! Ambrose tossed restlessly on his pillow, and longed for the morning to come. It seemed very soon after this that the next hour sounded. He counted the strokes: these ought to have been 12, but there were only 5. Could the clock be wrong? He started up and looked round the room; it was not lighted by the moon now; it was broad daylight, and he had been to sleep after all!
The first thing was to waken David, who was lying in a tranquil slumber with a smile on his face, as though Rumborough Camp had no existence. Ambrose called him gently and then shook him, but though he half-opened his eyes he immediately shut them again, turned on his side with a deep and comfortable sigh, and was faster asleep than ever. Some decided step must be taken. Without an instant’s hesitation Ambrose got a wet sponge and laid it on his brother’s face. David woke with a snort of disgust and started up.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“Hush-sh–ush!” said Ambrose, holding up a warning finger; “it’s time to start. Rumborough, you know.”
Thoroughly wakened by these words David was out of bed in an instant, and the two boys, creeping stealthily about the room, quickly huddled on their clothes. Then they went on tiptoe down the stairs, which creaked under their guilty footsteps as though they cried “Stop thief!” and on through the wide, silent hall, where Snuff the terrier, coiled on his mat, looked at them with an air of sleepy surprise, but did not stir.
But then came a difficulty. The garden door closed with a bolt high above their reach, so that David had to mount upon his brother’s back to get at it. Even then he could not manage to move it at first, for it was rusty, and when he did succeed it shot back with sudden violence and made enough noise to waken the whole household. The boys stared horror-stricken at each other, but there was no movement to be heard in the house. Recovering courage they quickly picked up their tools, and were soon fairly started on their way. This led for a short distance along the high-road until, crossing a stile, they came to broad meadows, where Farmer Hatchard’s cows were munching peacefully away at the short dewy grass. So far they were not beyond the allowed limits, and though they instinctively drew closer together as they passed through the herd of cows, they felt that none of the perils of the adventure had begun.
It was all familiar ground until they had passed the farm. Then came Blackberry Lane, which was a short cut to Rumborough Common. Blackberry Lane was so narrow that the straggling brambles and honeysuckles in the tall hedges almost met overhead. It was very steep, very stony, and always rather dark, a place, where it was easy to imagine any number of robbers lying in wait. The boys climbed slowly up the steep ascent, casting awed glances to right and left. The pickaxe weighed heavily on Ambrose’s shoulder, and David had quite as much as he could do to trudge along with two spades and a sack.
It was a relief when they came suddenly out of the gloomy shadows of the lane on to the broad expanse of Rumborough Common. There it lay stretched out before them, with a rough cart track across the middle of it. A lonely, cheerless-looking place! Bare of trees, except for one group of ragged firs, which marked the position of what was called the Camp. Not a house in sight, not a sign of life anywhere, nothing to break its even surface but some pools of water glimmering coldly grey in the morning light.
A sudden fear seized on Ambrose as he and David stood still for a moment to take breath. Brought face to face with Rumborough Common in this way, it seemed to present all manner of possible perils, which might come to light at any moment. He would willingly have turned back, and had he been alone would certainly have done so; but—David was there. It would not do to show any want of courage before his younger brother, who, moreover, had given no sign of wishing to give up the expedition. They must go on; they must cross that wide space which lay between them and the camp; they must reach those dark threatening fir-trees, and encounter, very likely, some desperate characters lying there in ambush, ready to spring upon the lonely traveller. All the romantic tales he had ever read, all the worst stories of bloodshed and horrors crowded upon Ambrose’s mind as the two boys plodded steadily along the cart track, bending a little under their burdens.
“Andrew said once that there used to be a ghost here,” said David, breaking the silence.
“Don’t,” said Ambrose, giving him a sharp dig with his elbow.
“He was a tinker,” continued David, “and he drowned himself in one of the ponds.”
“I wish you wouldn’t be so silly,” said Ambrose impatiently. “You know there aren’t any ghosts. You know father says so—and besides they never stay out after cock-crow—and besides, if there were they couldn’t hurt us.”
“Mother says nothing will hurt us if we’re not doing wrong,” said David; “but we are doing wrong, aren’t we?”
Ambrose gave a nervous laugh, which sounded to himself very thin and funny.
“If there are any ghosts here, I should think they’d be Roman ghosts,” he said.
A Roman ghost was a new idea to David. He dwelt on it a little before he asked:
“How should you think a Roman ghost would look?”
“Oh, how should I know?” exclaimed Ambrose irritably. “I wish you’d talk about something else.”
“Well,” concluded David thoughtfully, “if there are any Roman ghosts about, I shouldn’t think they’d like to see us digging up their things.”
The Camp reached, they stood still a moment gravely surveying it. It was formed by two low banks of turf, one within the other, almost complete circles, but broken here and there; the tall, black fir-trees stood near like sentinels on guard.
Ambrose dropped the pickaxe off his shoulder with a sigh of relief and sat down by it on the ground. He felt strangely indifferent to beginning the search now that he was really here, and might dig as long as he liked without anyone to say him nay. David’s remarks about ghosts had not made him more at his ease. Ghosts were all very well when you were safe at home, with well-known people and things all round you; but here, on this lonely Common, no subject could have been worse chosen. It was stupid of David. He sat beside his pickaxe feeling more creepy and nervous and uncomfortable every moment, until David, who had been carefully examining the inclosed space, struck his spade firmly on a certain spot and exclaimed:
“Here’s a good place to begin!”
“Why?” asked Ambrose moodily, without moving.
“It looks,” said David, kneeling down to see more closely, “as if it had been dug up before.”
“Well, then,” returned Ambrose, “it wouldn’t be a good place, because they’ll have found all the things.”
It was a bare spot in one side of the bank where there was no turf, and the earth looked loose and crumbling. David rose and struck his spade into it.
“You try somewhere else,” he said, “I mean to dig here.”
A little roused by this example Ambrose took up the heavy pickaxe again and went over to David’s side. He was making a good deep hole, but it was very narrow because his spade was so small.
“Wait a minute,” said Ambrose, “let me have a go at it.”
He raised up the pickaxe with all his strength, down it came, and stuck so fast that he and David together could hardly get it out again. But when it was dislodged they found it had done good service, for it broke up the earth all round the hole, so that they could now get both their spades into it and work away together. For some minutes they went on in silence, David with even steady strokes and Ambrose with feverishly quick ones. Nothing came to light but little round stones and chalky mould, not even a coin or a bone!
“I believe this isn’t a good place,” said Ambrose hopelessly, resting on his spade, “let’s try somewhere else.”
Just as he spoke David’s spade struck against something with a sharp clinking sound.
“What’s that?” exclaimed Ambrose.
All his excitement returning he threw himself on the ground and scratched away the earth with his hands.
“Wait a moment!” he cried; “don’t dig. I see something shining.”
“What’s it like?” asked David breathlessly. He could see nothing, for Ambrose had thrust his head right into the hole. He presently withdrew it, and looked up at David nearly choking and almost speechless with eagerness.
“I don’t know yet,” he managed to say, “we must get the earth away from it.”
He scooped up handful after handful, and David, sitting on his heels, watched the operations with deep solemnity. He could see a bit of this mysterious object now, and presently he remarked:
“I believe it’s only a bit of broken china.”
“Nonsense!” said Ambrose hoarsely. His face was scarlet; he could hardly speak. Ghosts, robbers, and all other terrors forgotten, his whole soul was bent on unearthing this long-dreamed-of treasure.
“I can feel it,” he said at last. “I can get my fingers round it. But it sticks fast.”
“Take my knife,” said David, producing a stout weapon from his pocket.
Ambrose gently eased away the earth round the unknown object. Trembling with triumph he extracted it from its bed and raised it on high:
“Broken china indeed!” he exclaimed scornfully.
It was a small earthenware crock of quaint shape with two very tiny handles or ears, and so incrusted with mould that only here and there you could see that it was of a deep-red colour. The top was covered by a lid.
Ambrose laid it on the grass between himself and David, and both the boys surveyed it with awe. They had really made a discovery in Rumborough Camp!
“Do you suppose it’s Roman?” said David at last, drawing a long breath and speaking very softly.
“What else should it be?” said Ambrose. He scraped away some of the earth clinging to the jar, touching it reverently as though it were a sacred object. “It’s just as Roman as it can be. Look at the shape!”
“It’s something like the pot Miss Unity sent us the honey in last summer,” said David, with his eyes fixed on the crock.
“Nonsense!” said Ambrose sharply. “I tell you it’s an antique. Why, I saw rows and rows like it in the museum at Nearminster. How stupid you are!” He spoke with some heat. David, on his side, did not like to be treated with scorn, which he felt he had not deserved.
“I found it,” he said quietly, “I was digging.”
“I got it out,” said Ambrose, still bending over the treasure.
“You’d have given up digging without me,” persisted David. “It’s just as much mine as yours.”
“Well, anyhow, we settled to go halves in all we found,” said Ambrose, “and you wouldn’t have known it was valuable without me. A honey-pot indeed!”
He laughed jeeringly.
David was becoming more and more hurt in his mind. He sat looking sulkily at the antique, and when Ambrose laughed he had half a mind to take up his spade and smash it. Instead of this he suddenly put out his hand, took off the lid, and felt inside it. His fingers touched something cold.
“There’s money in it!” he exclaimed. “Oh, Ambrose, look!”
On his outstretched palm there glittered three bright golden pieces.
“Coins?” said Ambrose, looking impressively at his brother.
He took one in his hand and examined it carefully, turning it over and over. There was a head on it, and some queer figures he could not understand, but he knew they were numbers.
“I told you it was Roman,” he said; “here’s a date in Roman figures.”
“What is it?” asked David.
Unfortunately Ambrose could not tell. There was a v and an x, and a great many straight strokes, but he had no idea what they represented. He sat, puzzling over it with a deep frown.
“They look just like sovereigns, don’t they?” said the matter-of-fact David; “and I thought old coins were never bright. They’re generally all green and brown and ugly.”
“Well,” said Ambrose, putting the pieces of money back into the crock; “we’ve got some splendid things for the museum at last. Aren’t you glad we came?”
David had not quite recovered his temper. He felt that it ought to be more thoroughly understood that it was he who had made both the discoveries; then he should be satisfied. But he could not bear Ambrose to take this tone of superiority. As they picked up their tools and prepared to start homewards he said, “I should think you’re glad I came, because I found the pot, and the money too.”
“You ought to say ‘coins,’ not ‘money,’” said Ambrose loftily.
It is sad to record that, before they were half-way home, the partners had fallen into open dispute over their booty. David wished to carry it; Ambrose refused; wrangling followed for the rest of the way, and when they stole guiltily in at the vicarage gate David was in tears, and Ambrose flushed and angry. No one was in the garden to notice their return, and, having replaced the tools, the crock was carried upstairs hidden in the breast of Ambrose’s tunic. In the passage they met Nurse.
“You’ve been out early, Master Ambrose,” was all she said, and passed on, unsuspicious.
So far the adventure had been attended with golden success at every step, yet, strange to say, it had not brought much pleasure with it. There was the crock of gold certainly in the museum upstairs; but there was also a load on the boys’ minds which hindered all enjoyment of it. How could they display it to their mother when it was the price of disobedience?