“You don’t want to go.”
“Yes, I do.”
“You’re afraid.”
“Perhaps so,” replied Scarlett; “but you are not, so let’s go and get the lanthorn.”
A quarter of an hour later, the lanthorn was secretly obtained, lighted, and a supply of pieces of candle included, and then the question arose, How were they to get it down to the little wilderness unseen?
“Somebody would be sure to come and look what we were doing.”
“I know,” cried Scarlett. “Let’s get a big bucket, and a couple of rods, and they’ll think we are going to fish.”
The idea was accepted at once, and the lads marched off, rods over shoulder, and the bucket swinging between them, its light unseen in the broad sunshine. The place was soon reached, and, taught by experience, they found a better way to the prostrate oak, and after a little struggling and scratching, stood gazing down.
“Look hear, Scar,” cried Fred, “if we find a better way in, we can easily cover this place over with some old branches and fern roots, because it must be a secret way, or it’s of no use.”
Scarlett quite agreed to this, and there they stood gazing up at the arrowy beams of sunshine which shot down through the leaves. Then they had a look down into the hole which, with its watery floor and darkness, was anything but tempting.