Crack!
Again, it struck! and again! and again! The fifth stroke laid the stone bare—the sixth and seventh loosened it, still more—the eighth and ninth completed the task.
“Give me the shovel!” said he.
When the earth was away and the stone exposed, he stooped and, putting his fingers under the edges, heaved it out.
“The rest is for you, Croyden!” and stepped aside.
The iron box was found!
For a moment, Croyden looked at it, rather dazedly. Could it be the jewels were there!—within his reach!—under that lid! Suddenly, he laughed!—gladly, gleefully, as a boy—and sprang down into the hole.
The box clung to its resting place for a second, as though it was reluctant to be disturbed—then it yielded, and Croyden swung it onto the bank.
“We’ll take it to the library,” he said, scraping it clean of the adhering earth. 335
And carrying it before them, like the Ark of the Covenant, they went joyously up to the floor above.