“Hurrah,” says he, “we’ve got it. We’ve won. Now we’ll be rich for life—a million apiece. I wish we were in New York now so we could start to sell these emeralds.”
“They’re emeralds?” says I. “All of them?”
“Every last one—as big as hickory nuts,” says he. “Now we’ve got to carry them into town with us, but those medicine men will be following, and they mustn’t know what we’ve got. How’ll we conceal this jewel case?”
“Swallow it,” says I.
“No,” says he, “there are some old papers in the shack. I remember them, back in a corner. We’ll just wrap up the case, and they’ll never suspect.”
“Of course not,” says I. “Medicine men are kind of idiots anyhow. If they weren’t, they wouldn’t be medicine men.”
We took our old cylinder back to the shack, and as we were going in I says to Catty, “Say, quit pretending and tell me what you want that old thing for, anyhow?”
“Oh, just for a souvenir,” says he. “I can hang it up in my room.”
“Huh,” says I.
In the dark I could hear him monkeying with papers, so I guessed he was doing up his jewels so the medicine men couldn’t see them. Then he says, “There isn’t a sound outside? If you’re rested I guess it’s safe to make tracks for Nantucket.”