“Well, that must have been a great place for a man to live in,” said Oscar, after he had inspected the premises.  “How long has the old fellow been dead?”

“I don’t know,” said Jerry; “it must be fifteen years, for he died before I was born.”

“I wonder what he lived here for; does anybody know?” inquired Oscar.

“No, he was a hermit, and that’s all anybody knows about him.  They say he used to have a garden, and raised everything he wanted to eat.  In the summer time he used to work a good deal for two or three farmers that lived over at Cedar Hill, at the further end of the pond.  He had a little skiff, and rowed back and forth in that.  He never used to spend any money, and people say he must have had all of a thousand dollars, that he had earned, when he died; but nobody knew what became of it.  They suppose he buried it about here somewhere, or hid it in some rock.”

“A thousand dollars!” said Oscar; “I ’m going to hunt for that; what will you bet I won’t find it?”

“Pooh!” replied Jerry, “people have searched all round here, and dug holes, and pulled up the floor of the hut, more than a hundred times; and I guess there’s no danger of your finding the money now.”

“I ’m going to try, at any rate,” said Oscar, and he get up from the stone upon which he was seated.

“Stop, don’t go now,” said Jerry; “let’s make a fire and get dinner first—­I ’m just about half starved.”

Oscar fell in with this suggestion, and they gathered together a lot of brush and other dry wood, and soon had a good fire kindled against a large stone, which happened to be hollowed out something like a fireplace.  Among the provisions they had brought with them were half a dozen potatoes, which they buried in the embers after the fire had got well under way.  While these were baking, they employed themselves in gathering wood and watching the fire.  They also found some slices of cheese in their basket, which they toasted by holding it before the fire upon the point of a sharp stick.  When their preparations for dinner were about completed, Oscar inquired: 

“Where shall we find some water to drink?  Is there a spring about here?”

“Water, why, there’s plenty of it,” replied Jerry pointing to the pond.

“What! you don’t mean to drink pond water, do you?” said Oscar, somewhat surprised.

“Yes I do,” replied Jerry; “that’s good water—­old Staples drank it all the time he lived here.”

“Well, come to think of it, I suppose it is good,” said Oscar; “for our Cochituate water, in Boston, is nothing but pond water.  It seems queer, though, to dip it right out of the pond; but I suppose it is just as good as though we drew it from an aqueduct.”