CHAPTER XXVII
THE CONFESSION
THE size of the task was apparent to all of them, but to none more clearly than Candon.
First of all, reckoning to deal with hard stuff, he had brought spades, not shovels. The bundle had been buried hurriedly; even under the best conditions he would have had to turn over many square feet of stuff to find it. Then this soft fickle sand was a terrible material to work on; it was like trying to shovel away water, almost. But the most daunting thing to him was the fact that fate had induced him to make the cache on the south side of the out-jut of cliff instead of the north, for the south wind, blowing up from the bay beyond, had added feet to the depth to be dealt with, just as a wind drifts snow against any obstruction. The sand level on the north of the jut was much lower, and it was not drifted. Then there was the question of time. Given time enough the McGinnis crowd would surely arrive, if he knew anything of them, and there would be a fight. And there was the question of Tommie.
This last consideration only came to him now on top of her words, “I’ll help.” He stood for a moment plunged back into thought. Then he turned to the others.
“Boys, I reckon I’ve been talking through my hat. White man or yellow man it’s all the same, we’ll all have to take our turn. Back with you, you two, to the ship and get canvas enough for tents. We’ll want three. Grub, too; we’ll want enough for a week. Leave two Chinks to look after the schooner and try to get some boarding to make extra shovels, as much as you can, for we’ll want some to shore up the sand. We’ve got to camp here right on our work.”
“Sure,” said Hank. “Come along, Bud, we’ll fetch the truck.” They turned towards the boat.
“I’ll go with you,” said Tommie, “I want to fetch my book.”
“I’d rather you didn’t,” said Candon, “I want you to help me here.”