“Fiddlesticks,” says he, “for the next few minutes, they’re medicine men if I say so. Can’t we have any fun in this world? Have you always got to spoil everything?”
“Oh,” says I, “we’re pretending again, are we?”
“Yes,” says he.
“And haven’t you had enough real excitement tonight without having to pretend any?” says I. “I’m satisfied. I’ve got my money’s worth. You don’t have to throw anything in for good measure.”
“I tell you,” says he, “we’ve got to get those jewels.”
“All right,” I says, “jewels it is.” I knew I might as well go ahead and pretend with him, because when he takes it into his head to play some kind of a wild game, why, he just goes ahead and does it. You can’t stop him.
“Hope I haven’t forgotten how to find them,” says he, and he began pacing off. I followed along, trying to remember, too, but I’d forgotten entirely.
He walked and turned and walked and turned. “There,” says he, “if I haven’t made a mistake, we’re standing right on top of them.”
“Then,” says I, “let’s dig and have it over with.”
So we dug, and sure enough, he remembered right. In about two minutes we came onto the old tin chart case and got it out of the sand. Catty held it up in the air.