“We won’t breath it, Aunt Belle,” Bob promised.
“I’ll take you over sometime and you can see the place. I ordered a pair of good watchdogs to help guard it. They should be here in a day or so,” Mr. Fenton said, then added. “Well, if you want to go out and inspect what’s being done on the mud hole, come along.”
“Perhaps they could eat another piece of pie, Norman.”
“No, we couldn’t, not a sliver,” Bob insisted.
“Much to our regret,” Jim grinned.
“Very well,” Aunt Belle agreed.
The two boys followed Mr. Fenton out of the front door, down the flower lined path under a grove of huge maples, across the road onto the farm proper, past the barns, around the vegetable garden and then he stopped and made a gesture.
“Here it is.” They saw the land, much as he had described it, the alfalfa meadow rising gently on the further side, and between them was a long pond of still water which was very dirty.
“Some hole,” Jim nodded. They walked on, picking their way until they saw a boy at work, and they stood quietly watching him. He did not realize they were there and went on with his task quite as if he was alone on the island.
“What the heck is he doing?” Bob whispered. The boy had some odd sort of implement, the handles of which he grasped in both hands, stood it upright, then jumped, his feet landing in the middle; driving the queer tool deep into the ground. Then he stepped off, bent the handles as far as they would go, and raised the earth.