Dick winced at the words.
“Confound old Tunstall,” he said. “What’s become of him?”
“I don’t know,” Tom answered. “I haven’t seen him for quite a while.”
“Maybe he’s gone away,” I suggested. “Don’t let’s think of him. Well, what shall we do next?”
We had just completed the exploration of the vicinity of the clump of lilies, and Tom was standing with his eyes fixed upon them.
“But see here,” he cried, “we’ve just been wasting our time grubbing around here.”
“That’s evident enough,” growled Dick, with a glance at the piles of earth we had thrown up. “You’d suppose this was the Panama canal.”
“But why didn’t we think? Don’t you remember, Biffkins, we were going to look in your grandaunt’s Bible—it wasn’t really any use to look in father’s.”
“Why, of course!” I cried. “How silly of us! Come on, let’s look at it now.”
“You run on,” said Dick, “and find it. I’m dead tired—I’m also somewhat discouraged,” and he threw himself down on the grass.