Shortly after the boys left in the station wagon for their camping trip, Marjorie said to Judy: “Let’s look at that map again. Penny could be wrong. Maybe it does show exactly where treasure is buried.”
“Let’s,” Judy agreed. “And maybe we held it upside down or something. Maybe the big red cross doesn’t mark the spot where Pat planted his potatoes.”
They raced into the Lodge and down the hall to the storage room. During the excitement of Peter’s arrival they had left the map, still pasted in the lid of the jewelry box, on one of the old trunks. Again they took it over to the window and studied it thoughtfully.
“Let’s see,” Judy said after awhile. “When you’re facing north, west is on your left isn’t it?”
Marjorie nodded. “So there’s no point in looking at this darn thing any longer. If it isn’t a phony, the treasure is buried under the potato hills.”
“I give up,” Judy said with a sigh. “We may as well go down to the beach and try to find some rare shells. I suppose that’s the only buried treasure I’ll have the luck to find.”
During the next few days they filled a bucket with shells which they hoped were collectors’ items, but which Phil and Peter told them were worthless.
“That is the worst about being a girl!” Judy Powell said in a moment of disgust. “The boys will come back with wonderful stories about how many fish they caught and the rapids they ran—and everything!” Judy’s ideas of what the boys were doing ran out.
Marjorie and Judy were sitting in their favorite spot on the pier, dangling their feet in the water. They wore their bathing suits and had just watched the cruiser take off with a group of the younger guests, exclusive of themselves. They had not wanted to go since Mal had promised to take them on a picnic in the woods. Just at this moment they were in the old familiar throes of not knowing what to do next.