t I'd accomplished. But
somehow it didn't look so much. Just a little place in one corner.

Course, goin' in on the 8:03 I had to stand for a lot of kiddin'.
They're a great bunch of humorists, them commuters. Nick and Norrie has
spread the news around industrious about my sunrise spadin' stunt, and
everybody has to pull his little wheeze.

"How's the old back feel about now; eh, Torchy?" asks one.

"Great stuff!" says another. "Everybody does it--once."

"The boy's clever with the spade, I'll say," adds Nick. "Let's all turn
out tomorrow morning and watch him. He does it regular, they tell me."

I grinned back at 'em as convincin' as I could. For somehow I wasn't
just in the mood for grinnin'. My head was achin' more or less, and my
back hurt, and my palms were sore. By noon I was a wreck. Absolutely.
And when I thought of puttin' in two or three more sessions like that I
had to groan. Could I do it? On the other hand, could I renig on the job
after all that brash line of talk I'd given Vee?

Say, it was all I could do to limp out to luncheon. I didn't want much,
but I thought maybe some tea and toast would make me feel better. And it
was in a restaurant that I ran across this grouchy Scotchman, MacGregor
Shinn, who sold me the place here a while back.

"Maybe you don't know it, Mac," says I, "but you're a wise guy."

"Am I, though?" says he. "I hadn't noticed it myself. Just how, now?"

"Unloadin' that country property on me," says I. "I used to wonder why
you let go of it. I don't any more. I've got the right hunch at last.
You got up bright and early one morning and tried digging around with a
spade. Eh?"

Mac stares at me sort of puzzled. "Not me," says he. "Whatever put that
in your mind, me lad?"

"Ah, come!" says I. "With all that land lyin' around you was bound to
get reckless with a spade some time or other. Might not have been flower
beds you was excavatin' for, same as me. Maybe you was specializin' on
spuds, or cabbages. But I'll bet you had your foolish spell."

Mr. Shinn shakes his head. "All the digging I ever did out there," says
he, "was with a niblick in the bunkers of the Roaring Rock golf course.
No, I'm wrong."

"Ha, ha!" says I. "I thought so."

"Yes," he goes on, rubbin' his chin reminiscent, "I mind me of one
little job of digging I did. I had a cook once who had a fondness for
gin that was scandalous. Locking it up was no good, except in my bureau
drawers, so one time when I had