He said, “Well, the proper way would be for us just to fit out an expedition and go in search of it like old what’s-his-name who hunted for the soda fountain down in Florida.”
Pee-wee said, “Ponce de Leon, he hunted for the Fountain of Youth.”
“But the best way,” Brent said, “if you’re really interested, is for us to get hold of a map of the Ohio River when we hit Indianapolis. We cross the Ohio at Wheeling and if that old creek is anywhere in our neighborhood we’ll see if we can hoe up a few nuggets. That’s the proper thing, isn’t it—nuggets?”
“Nuggets and pieces of eight,” Pee-wee said, very serious.
Brent said that we had enough on our minds then, with the Uncle Tom’s Cabin people and the Veterans’ Reunion, and that we’d better get along, especially as Harry with the van had almost caught up to us.
But one more thing happened before we got very far from Barrow’s Homestead, and it threw some light on the mystery—that’s what Pee-wee said. A man in a pair of overalls came along the road and Brent stopped to ask him a couple of questions. While the machine was standing there, the van passed us. Gee, there were a lot of people in it and on it and all over.
Harry said, “Do you want us to tow you? Come on, hurry up, you’ll be late for the show. We’ve got Sherman’s march through Georgia beat a hundred ways.”
Brent said, “Don’t bother us, we’re chasing after nuggets.” Then he said to the man, “You don’t happen to know who owns that land beyond the marsh down at the other end of town, do you? Before you get to the Post Office? There’s a big cornfield there.”
I whispered to Pee-wee, “Keep your mouth shut, now, and don’t tell him about good turns.”
The man said, “Yer mean swamp acres? That’s part o’ th’ old Deacon Snookbeck place.”