Mac scratches his head. "I canna seem to think," says he.
And about then I begins to get a glimmer of this brilliant thought of mine. "Would it have been in that three-cornered strip that runs along by the road?" I asks.
"It might," says he.
I didn't press him for any more details. I'd heard enough. I finished my invalid's lunch and slid out. But say, when I caught the 5:13 out to Harbor Hills that afternoon I had something all doped out to slip to that bunch of comic commuters. I laid for 'em in the smokin' car, and when Nick Barrett discovers me inspectin' my palm blisters he starts in with his kidding again.
"Oh, you'll be able to get out and dig again in a week or so," says he.
"I hope so," says I.
"Still strong for it, eh?" says he.
"Maybe if you knew what I was diggin' for," says I, "you'd—well, there's no tellin'."
"Eh?" says he. "Whaddye mean?"
I shakes my head and looks mysterious.