“Spades?” said Bart; “I should think so, and fifty other things. We must have lights. We’ll have to make a row of them around the edge of the hole.”
“A row of them?” said Phil. “Nonsense! Two will do.”
“No,” said Bart. “You must always have a row of burning lamps around whenever you dig for money. They must be kept burning too. One of us must watch the lamps: woe to us if any one of them should go out! You see it isn’t an ordinary work. It’s magic! Digging up a pot of gold must be done carefully. Every buried pot of gold can only be got up according to a regular fashion. I’ve got a book that tells all about it—how many lights, how many spades, the proper time, and all that. Above all, we’ll have to remember to keep as silent as death when we’re working, and never speak one word. Why, I’ve heard of cases where they touched the pot of gold, and just because they made a sort of cry of surprise, the pot at once sunk down ever so much farther. And so they had to do it all over again.” Did Bart believe all this nonsense that he was talking? It is very difficult to say. He was not at all superstitious; that is to say, his fancies never affected his actual life. He would walk through a graveyard at midnight as readily as he would go along a road. At the same time his brain contained such an odd jumble of wild fancies, and his imagination was so vivid, that his ordinary common sense was lost sight of. He could follow the leadings of a very vivid imagination to the most absurd extent. If he had been really, in his heart, superstitious, he would have shrunk from the terrors of this enterprise. But his real faith was not concerned at all. He was playing—very earnestly indeed, and with immense excitement, yet still he was only playing—at digging for money, just as he had been playing at being a bandit, or a pirate. He was quite ready, therefore, to comply with any amount of superstitious forms. The rest, also, were very much the same way, except Bruce. He alone looked upon the matter with anxiety; but he fought down his fear by an effort of pure courage.
It was only imagination, then; but still, so strong was their imagination, that it made the whole plan one of sober reality, and they discussed it as though it were so.
“You see,” said Bart, as he threw himself headlong into the excitement of the occasion—“you see, we’ve got to be careful. The pot of gold has been revealed by the mineral rod. If we had dug it up by accident, of course we could have got it without any trouble. But it has been revealed by magic, and must be gained by the laws of magic. I’ve got that Book of Magic, you know, and it tells all about it. Lights around, in number any multiple of three, or seven. Those are magic numbers. Our number inside the magic circle will be seven. That’s one reason why I want old Solomon. We’ll have to keep silent, and not say a word. We must not begin till midnight, and we cannot go on after cock-crow. O, we’ll manage it. Hurrah for the ‘B. O. W. C’!”
And so, after some further discussion, they decided to make the attempt that night. It was to be the last night of the holidays, and was more convenient than any other. Captain Corbet was to meet them with his rod and a spade. They were to come up with old Solomon, and all the other requisites.
With these arrangements they parted solemnly from Captain Corbet, and went back to the Academy, bowed down by the burden of a most tremendous secret.