No one answered. Fascinated, they were watching the fall of the pick. With every blow, they were listening for it to strike the stones.
“Better get a shovel, Croyden, we’ll need it,” said Macloud, pausing long enough, to throw off his coat.... “Oh! I forgot to say, I wired the Pinkerton man to recover the package you buried this morning.”
Croyden only nodded—stood the lamp on a box, and returned with the coal scoop.
“This will answer, I reckon,” he said, and fell to work.
“It seems absurd!” remarked Macloud, between strokes. “To have hunted the treasure, for weeks, all over Greenberry Point, and then to find it in the cellar, like a can of lard or a bushel of potatoes.”
“You haven’t found it, yet,” Croyden cautioned. 334 “And we’ve gone the depth mentioned.”
“No! we haven’t found it, yet!—but we’re going to find it!” Macloud answered, sinking the pick, viciously, in the ground, with the last word.
Crack!
It had struck hard against a stone.
“What did I tell you?” Macloud cried, sinking the pick in at another place.