"Fourteen—fifteen—sixteen," counted Joan, stopping in a place where the soft sand ran in between two rocks. "Here we are, sir."
"Fourteen—fif-teen—six-teen," said Garth, gazing earnestly at the ground and making his last careful step. He stood on a grassy hummock and looked across at Joan.
"Ben, I'm going to dig here," he said. "Like enough there's treasure."
"You'd best come over here, sir; I've measured it up dead right," the Bo'sun assured him.
"It depends on the kind of steps you take," the Captain contended. "You try there, too. Heave me the spade, matey. You can dig there easily with a clam-shell, but this earth is hard."
Bobstay hove him the spade, which was nothing more nor less than a garden-trowel. Silver Shoal, having no use for a shovel, possessed none. The trowel was used to cultivate the "informal garden," when not digging treasure. Silence fell, while Garth dug vigorously in the earth and Joan leisurely did the same in the sand.
"Jumping cuttle-fish!" she cried suddenly. "Come here, Cap'n Crosstrees, sir!"
Garth promptly dropped the trowel, rolled down the gentle bank, and sat up beside her.
