“He has simply quit digging a hole at random,” Macloud said. “My Lord, he’s taking a drink!”
Bald-head, however, did not return to his companion. Instead, he went out to the Bay and stood looking across the water toward the bug-light. Then he turned and looked back toward the timber.
He was thinking, as they had. The land had been driving inward by the encroachment of the Bay—the beeches had, long since, disappeared, the victims of the gales which swept the Point. There 140 was no place from which to start the measurements. Beyond the fact that, somewhere near by, old Parmenter had buried his treasure, one hundred and ninety years before, the letter was of no definite use to anyone.
From the Point, he retraced his steps leisurely to his companion, who had continued digging, said something—to which Hook-nose seemingly made no reply, save by a shovel of sand—and continued directly toward the timber.
“Has he seen us?” said Croyden.
“I think not—these bushes are ample protection. Lie low.... He’s not coming this way—he’s going to inspect the big trees, on our left.... They won’t help you, my light-fingered friend; they’re not the right sort.”
After a time, Bald-head abandoned the search and went back to his friend. Throwing himself on the ground, he talked vigorously, and, apparently, to some effect, for, presently, the digging ceased and Hook-nose began to listen. At length, he tossed the pick and shovel aside, and lifted himself out of the hole. After a few more gesticulations, they picked up the tools and returned to the buggy.
“Have they decided to abandon it?” said Croyden, as they drove away.
The thieves, themselves, answered the question. At the first heavy undergrowth, they stopped the horse and proceeded carefully to conceal the tools. 141 This accomplished, they drove off toward the town.
“Hum!” said Macloud. “So you’re coming back are you? I wonder what you intend to do?”