“Where? Where? Yes, I see—I’m on to it now!”
Stack was ploughing up the sodden sand-peak, in his drab gaiters and sand-coated khaki, only a shade less quickly than he had crossed it a few minutes before on hearing the girl’s cry for help.
He reached the sandy niche of the “bright shell,” stooped and picked up something.
Those below saw him reel as he looked at it, as if he had a sunstroke.
The next minute dunes, beach, Neck, sands-pits—the very quicksands themselves—rang with a new cry, wild, amazed, whooping, triumphant.
“Oh-h! let’s go an’ see what it is—what he’s found!” gasped the girl who had seen the bright thing from afar.
“I guess you won’t find it easy climbing in those wet clothes! Here, let me help you!” volunteered Kenjo, aflame all over with a curiosity greater than Boy Scout had ever known before.
Up the wet sand-mound they plodded. Toiney, picking up the dwarf-stemmed pipe which he had thrown away in his search for a plank, arose and followed them.
“My eye! Stack’s gone clean daffy over something,” panted Kenjo.
Well might he gasp; Miles Stackpole, Eagle Scout, was yelling like a Comanche, dancing like a madman among the wet, plumy beach-grass that thatched the tall sand-mound.