He went out on the extreme edge, faced about, and taking a line at right angles to it, stepped two hundred and fifty paces. He ended in sand—and, for another fifty paces, sand—sand unrelieved by aught save some low bushes sparsely scattered here and there.
“Somewhere hereabout, according to present conditions, the trees should be,” he said.
“Not very promising,” was Croyden’s comment.
“Let us assume that the diagonal lines drawn between the trees intersect at this point,” Macloud continued, producing a compass. “Then, one hundred and ten paces North-by-North-East is the place we seek.”
He stepped the distance carefully—Croyden following with the horses—and sunk his heel into the sand beside a clump of wire grass.
“Here is the old buccaneer’s hoard!” he exclaimed, dramatically.
“Shall we dig, immediately?” Croyden laughed.
