“Hillo!” cried Hiram, “hyar’s enuff o’ thet orchilla weed thet they vall’ys so in ’Frisco to make airy a nan’s fortin’ ez could carry it thaar, I guess!”
“Is that the orchilla?” I asked. “I was wondering what Mr Steenbock meant when he spoke of it.”
“Aye,” replied Hiram, dragging off a great bunch of it from what looked like the decayed trunk of one of the oak trees, hollowed out by age and exposure to the heavy tropical rains of the region, “thet’s what they calls the orchilla weed, I guess. Hillo! though, what’s this?”
“What?” exclaimed Tom Bullover and I, pressing up to where he was stooping, scraping away at the timber; “what is it?”
“I’m durned ef it air a tree at all,” said Hiram, all excitement, and his voice thick with emotion and eager exultation. “It’s a door o’ some sort or t’other.”
“Really,” I said, as eager as he, helping him to pull away the fungus growth from the now partly-exposed woodwork which, certainly, looked like a door, as he said, “do you think so?”
“Aye, Cholly. I’m jiggered if we ain’t found the cave at last!”