"Watch out!" yelled his father. Leaping to one side, he caught Doby's hand and fled down the hill with the boy like a living kite on short tether waving behind him.
There was roaring—grinding—snapping—crashing. Then came showers of branches—leaves—bark—clods.
Doby had done a series of flipflaps. He was dizzy and confused, but he lent a hand to his father, who was flat on the ground.
The uproar deepened. Then it shrilled away. In another moment the sleet was gone, the sun was bright, the storm had passed.
The oak was standing on its head, kicking its heels in the air. The mound was a lopsided dirt-pile.
Already dozens of excited men were pouring out of the stockade. They ran with shovels and rakes and sticks to poke about in the cavity which the capsized oak's roots had torn through the mound.
The genial parson came with them and looked on laughingly, to see fair play at the digging. This Dr. Mannassah Cutler was one of the big men of his time. He held the standard of his town so high that each of the other Ohio settlements had to set its best foot forward to keep up with Marietta's march of progress. He had a scholar's interest in mounds. He ordered them preserved. He had an explorer's interest in their treasures. He examined them scientifically. He had a leader's interest in his people. He made them play fair. He was their court of last resort.
In spite of the desperate curiosity driving him, Doby had not the weight to hold his own at the front of this line of human gophers. He was forced back to a spot where he could use nothing but his ears. For two or three hours all he got out of the hole was some scraps of conversation like this:
"Any gold?"
"Never is any gold."