“Fo’ty-eight, fo’ty-nine, fifty,” the intent Jerry called. As he finished, he thrust his shovel into the sand, and the boys could see him fumbling in his pockets. In a moment, he produced and lit a candle. Sticking it in the sand, he carefully expectorated on his hands, and the first shovelful of sand flew over his head.
Tom, shaking with laughter, glued his mouth to Bob’s ear and whispered: “Why not let him have it now? He ain’t goin’ to find the box.”
“Let him get up a perspiration,” whispered Bob. “It’ll do him good.”
In all his life, the shiftless Jerry had probably never done as energetic work as followed in the next five minutes. The loose sand seemed to fly through the air as if coming from a spout. [The colored boy was soon knee deep in a hole], mumbling a negro chant. Then his knees disappeared.
“It’s a shame,” said Hal, in the faintest whisper, as he crawled in between the other boys, who were rolling on the sand, holding their hands over their mouths.
“Ssh!” came almost inaudibly from the prostrate Captain Joe.
