ir," says Rupert, duckin'
his head sheepish. "Shall--shall I put them in?"

"Oh, you might as well," says Old Hickory.

And once more, with Vee at the wheel, we sneaks off in the moonlight
for Nunca Secos Key. We wasn't a chatty lot of adventurers. I expect
we all felt like we was about to open an April fool package, and wished
the others hadn't been there to watch. None of us could pass anyone
else the laugh; that was some satisfaction.

There was enough outsiders, though, to give us the titter. Megrue was
sure to spread the tale among Old Hickory's business friends. And who
knew what that pair of foiled interviewers would do to us? Some of
their stuff might get into the New York papers. Then wouldn't Mr.
Ellins be let in for a choice lot of joshin'! No wonder he sits
chewin' savage at a cold cigar.

When we gets near the little island, though, he rouses up. He pulls on
a pair of wadin' boots and, tosses another pair to me. Rupert, he's
all fixed up for rough work, and even Vee has brought some high huntin'
shoes.

So, when we lands, each takes a shiny new spade or a pick and makes
ready to explore the mound that looms mysterious through the mangrove
bushes. First off, Rupert has to toss out a couple of gas bombs, in
case there might be rattlers roamin' around. And, believe me, any
snake that could stand that smell was entitled to stay on the ground.
It's ten or fifteen minutes before we dared go near ourselves. Rupert
suggests that we start a tunnel in from the bottom, and sort of relay
each other as our wind gives out.

"Very well," says Old Hickory. "It's a good many years since I did any
excavating, but I think I can still swing a pick."

Say, he could; that is, for a five-minute stretch. And while he's
restin' up I tackles it. I didn't last so long, either. Rupert,
though, comes out strong. He makes the sand fly at a great rate. Vee
stands by, holdin' an electric torch, while Auntie watches from the
boat.

"We're makin' quite a hole in it, Mr. Ellins," says I, sort of
encouragin'.

"It is the usual thing to do, I believe," says he, "before owning up
that you've been fooled. Here, Killam, let me have another go at that."

He don't do it because he's excited about it, but just because it's his
turn. In fact, we'd all got to about that stage. We'd shoveled out a
wagon load or two of old roots and sand and rotten shells without
uncoverin' so much as a rusty nail, and it looked like