ark, solemn, frightened, spurred
him on to greater effort. He dug furiously, flinging earth in all
directions. Hughie marvelled at his madcap speed and the strength of
his sinewy arms. His jaw was set. His face, dark and vivid in the
lantern light, shone with a boy's excitement. But when the wind came
he looked defiant. They could not know that to him, then, the spirit
of Adam Craig seemed to come with a sigh and a rustle and hover near
them.

Hughie took his turn at the spade but to Kenny his methodical
competence proved an irritant. He was glad when Hughie's back gave out
and forced him to surrender.

"Mr. O'Neill," said Hannah flatly after what seemed an interminable
interval of digging, "you've dug a hole big enough to bury yourself.
Mr. Craig's money couldn't be no further down than that. Myself I
think you'd better let it go until morning. It's snowin' harder every
minute and we'll all get our death of cold."

Kenny shuddered at the homely phrase. But he wiped the dirt and
perspiration from his forehead and went off toward the kitchen in
gloomy silence, his energy and optimism gone.

CHAPTER XXIV

DIGGING DOTS

So madness settled down upon the Craig farm.

Futile, flurried days of digging followed for which Kenny, delving
desperately in his memory, supplied forgotten clues. Fearful lest the
villagers might take it into their heads to climb the hill to Craig
Farm and help them dig, he pledged every one to secrecy and went on
digging, with Hughie at his heels. The suspense became fearful and
depressing.

On the third day Hannah rebelled. The gloom and mystery were getting
on her nerves.

"Hetty," she said irritably, "if you're standin' at the window there,
figurin' out where Mr. Craig's money is likely to be buried, you can
stop it this minute and clean the lamps. Your father's out pulling up
the floor-boards in the barn and Mr. O'Neill's digging up the lilac
bush for the third time. And that's enough. It beats me how Mr.
O'Neill can go on rememberin' so much now he's got his memory started.
He just seems to unravel things out of it overnight. It keeps me all
worked up. I feel as if I ought to whisper when I speak and every
night the minute I get to sleep I find myself diggin' in first one
outlandish place and then another. And if I'm not diggin' in my sleep,
your father is, with jerks and starts and grunts enough to wake the
dead. I'm all unstrung. So far as I can see the onl