"There's a fog-bank out there," said he, "and it will be awful thick if it comes in."
We all looked out to sea, where a gray mass hung over the water.
"Let's have one more look on the hill," said Mr. Daddles, "remember how sorry we'd be if someone else came here after us, and found a chest of golden guineas."
So up to the hill we went again, and prowled around, kicking at loose rocks, and stamping wherever the earth sounded hollow.
"Under the tree is a more likely place," Mr. Daddles reminded us, "they always bury it under a tree."
"We ought to start," said Jimmy, "the wind has come out east, and that fog will be here before long."
"Just a minute—look around here, boys,—we'll find it, if you'll only look around."
And he scrabbled around at a great rate.
"Leave no stone unturned," said he, turning over two of them.
But we found nothing at all. Nothing, that is, except dirt, grass, mullein-stalks, and beetles or crickets under the stones. Mr. Daddles hunted energetically, pulling up grass by the roots, digging in the soil with his fingers, and kicking at stones with the toes of his tennis-shoes, until he shouted "Ouch!" and jumped about holding his foot in his hand. Then he set to again, so excitedly that we looked at him in astonishment.