“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.