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 we might keep on until mornin’ with the same amazin’ success.  Considerin’ that we was half beaten before we started, we’d done a pretty fair job.  It was just a question now of how soon somebody’d have nerve enough to make a motion that we quit.  That’s when we had our first little flutter.

“Huh!” says Old Hickory, jabbin’ in with his spade.  “Must have struck a log.  Hand me a pick, someone.”

“When he makes a swing with that, the point goes in solid and sticks.

“Right!  It is a log,” he announces.

Killam tests it, and he says it’s a log, too.

“An old palmetto trunk,” says he, proddin’ at it.  “Two of them, one laid on the other.  No, three.  I say, that’s funny.  Let’s clear away all of this stuff.”

So we goes at it, all three at once, and inside of fifteen minutes we can see what looks like the side of a little log cabin.

“If this was out in Wisconsin,” says Old Hickory, “I should say we’d found somebody’s root cellar.  But who would build such a thing in Florida?”

“Come on,” says Killam, his voice sort of shrill and quivery.  “I have one of the logs loose.  Now pry here with your picks, everybody.  Together, now!  It’s coming!  Once more!  There!  Now the next one above.  Oh, put your weight on it, Mr. Ellins.  Get a fresh hold.  Try her now.  It’s giving!  Again.  Harder.  Look out for your toes!  And let’s have that light here, Miss Verona.  Flash it into this hole.  Isn’t that a—­a—­”