“Yes, of course,” Steve replied. “But I don’t know who’d want to rummage among all these disgusting old things.”
George and Marmaduke thought of the bones in the woods, and with one breath, both said, “No!”
“To be sure,” Steve continued, peering into the box, “if we could find some fellow that hadn’t any respect for himself, we might hire him to handle its contents, and separate the good from the bad. Now, I’ve a good mind to take out this——Roanwer!”
“What’s the matter?”
“Matter!” roared Steve, starting back. “My gracious! That box is inhabited with some awful looking grubs!”
Without further parley the lid was laid on, the box shoved into the hole, and the dirt shoveled in.
“Steve,” said George suddenly, “I believe you knew about this. Why were you all at once so eager to go, and why did you pick out this tree, and guess the box was Crazy Tom’s so quick?”
“Now, George, don’t be foolish. I came for the fun of it, that’s all. Now, didn’t you shoot all the arrows, and didn’t I do all I could to help you? Didn’t I work hard digging? Why did I know about where Crazy Tom buried his treasures? Why, George, are you losing your wits? Come, now, be sensible; and think it’s a great joke.”
George looked full in Stephen’s honest face, relented, and said desperately, “Well, I suppose it is very funny; but I’ve made an awful fool of myself.”
Everything except the big rope was taken home. It was enough for the Sage to carry it when in excellent spirits, unruffled temper, and fired with “enthusiasm.” Now, his spirits were broken,—for the time only,—his temper was soured, he himself was sore and weary, and the rope was “forgotten.”