“I do believe,” said Ambrose, “I would rather have been sent to prison, or have had some very bad punishment.”
“It’ll be rather bad, though, to-morrow to have to take it back to Miss Barnicroft, won’t it?” said David. “Do you suppose father will go in with us?”
That very evening, in the twilight, the crock with its glittering pieces was unearthed for the second time, but with far less labour than at first.
“I’m glad it’s out of my garden anyway,” said David as they went back to the house with it.
“I’m not glad of anything,” replied Ambrose despairingly; and indeed he felt that he should never care about pleasure or be happy again until his father had said that he could trust him.
Snuff, the terrier, knew quite well the next morning when the boys started with their father that there was something wrong. No smiles, no shouts, no laughter, no throwing of sticks for him to fetch—only two sad and sober little boys marching along by the vicar’s side. The dog tried at first, by dancing round them with short barks and jumps, to excite the dull party into gaiety, but soon finding no response forsook them altogether, and abandoned himself heart and soul to a frantic rabbit hunt. Rumborough Common looked coldly desolate as ever, and as they passed the Camp and saw the very hole where the crock had been buried an idea struck David.
“Mightn’t we put it where we got it, and tell her it’s there?” he asked.
But the vicar would not hear of this.
“You must give it back into Miss Barnicroft’s own hands,” he answered, “and tell her how you came to dig it up. Perhaps Ambrose had better go in alone, and we will wait here in the lane for him.”
Arrived at Miss Barnicroft’s gate, Ambrose hung back and cast an imploring glance at his father. He had wished for a “bad punishment;” but it was too dreadful to face all the unknown terrors of Miss Barnicroft’s house alone.