There was still some restraint between them.  The scars of last night’s fight could not heal in a moment.  But as they hurried among the trees, Don gave thanks that he had forced himself to speak and had broken the ice.  For Tim was almost pathetically eager to show good will—­picking the hardest tasks and the roughest paths, and squirming unbidden into doubtful corners to sound them out.

Every step now increased their chances of encountering the other patrols.  They passed the fourth blaze since leaving camp, and then the fifth.  The trees became thicker, the foliage denser.  The sun was almost shut out.  Even the sounds of the birds were hushed.

Don halted.  “We must be getting near the end of the trail.  We’ve come about a mile.”

Tim’s voice trembled.  “Let’s make a rush for it.”

Don shook his head.  “Too dangerous.  We’ll go ahead, stop and listen, and go ahead again.”

“Gee!” said Tim.  “Like stalking an Indian in Colonial days.”

Now listening breathlessly, now darting forward, now creeping, they slowly forged ahead.  Two more blazes were passed.  They found the next.  It was marked: 

-O-

“The end of the trail,” said Don in a whisper.

“Maybe we’re here first,” said Tim.

But they dared not take the chance of haste.  Rival scouts might be waiting, hidden, to pounce on them.  They listened, while their hearts beat heavily.

“I’m going forward,” said Tim at last, and edged out.  Soon they knew that neither the Eagles nor the Foxes had yet reached the goal.

Then began a frantic search.  They wanted to find the treasure and away.  Not a sound broke the stillness but bird calls and their own footsteps.  Yet they knew that, from some place among the trees, scouts were stealing toward them.  They went out in a wide circle, worked in, and found nothing.

“Mr. Wall wouldn’t make this too hard,” said Tim.  “He’s left some sign.  How could he hide it?”

“Among tree branches,” said Don, “or in a tree hollow, or in the ground—­”

“That’s it,” cried Tim.  “Burying would leave a sign—­freshly turned earth.  Come on.”

They searched again in nervous hurry, and kept looking over their shoulders as though trying to peer through the veil of trees.  Don saw no earth that looked fresh, but he did see a suspicious mound near a tree.  He put his feet on the spot.  His heel sank softly.

“Tim!” he called.

Tim came running.  “That’s it.  Why didn’t we bring a trowel?” He dug at the earth with his ax.  Don unslung his haversack, pulled out the frying-pan, and scooped with the pan handle.

The sweat rolled into their eyes.  They worked feverishly.  All at once Tim’s ax hit something softer and more yielding than the earth.

“She’s here, Don!  Gee! she’s here!” He dropped the axe and worked with his hands; by degrees the top of a pasteboard box appeared.  They loosened the earth around the sides, found grips for their fingers, and pulled.  The box came out.  It was tied with string and could have been in the ground only a few days.