“Why, uncle—there—see—the boy is only a withered white bough. I see it very plainly now.”
“You don’t see the tree I mean,” quoth my uncle, with a decided air of relief, “but never mind; I defy the boy. Yorpy, jump out, and shoulder the box. And now then, youngster, off with your shoes and stockings, roll up your trousers legs, and follow me. Carefully, Yorpy, carefully. That’s more precious than a box of gold, mind.”
“Heavy as de gelt anyhow,” growled Yorpy, staggering and splashing in the shallows beneath it.
“There, stop under the bushes there—in among the flags—so—gently, gently—there, put it down just there. Now youngster, are you ready? Follow—tiptoes, tiptoes!”
“I can’t wade in this mud and water on my tiptoes, uncle; and I don’t see the need of it either.”
“Go ashore, sir—instantly!”
“Why, uncle, I am ashore.”
“Peace! follow me, and no more.”
Crouching in the water in complete secrecy, beneath the bushes and among the tall flags, my uncle now stealthily produced a hammer and wrench from one of his enormous pockets, and presently tapped the box. But the sound alarmed him.
“Yorpy,” he whispered, “go you off to the right, behind the bushes, and keep watch. If you see any one coming, whistle softly. Youngster, you do the same to the left.”