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"With the mop pail. Four taps with the bottom on the water surface. Then I filled the pail and began swabbing down." Rick nodded. "I don't know what I found. A cylinder, maybe two inches in diameter, maybe less. Smooth. I got the fish line around it and carried the line to the shore. We'll have to come back later." "We certainly will." Scotty's eyes sparkled.
He had his breath back somewhat now, so he paddled slowly to a point on the wall of the pit under Scotty's position. He bumped gently into rock and felt with his hands while treading water. The rock surface was rough, but the roughness was regular, the wall flat. Then his fingers felt a groove and his mind created the image to match it. A drill hole! He was in a quarry!
It was now almost daybreak of the morning of the third day following our first gas attack and, almost ready to drop with fatigue, I went over to the wagon lines, gathered some straw and bags together under an ammunition wagon, and was in a dead sleep in less time than it takes to tell it. At ten-thirty I reported to the orderly room to attend Scotty's trial.
In 1915 there was living at the Soldiers' Home in the Napa Valley an octogenarian, last surviving member of the Keystone Club, who had helped to dig Scotty's grave. In the middle grave by the Middle Yuba lies the body of Robert Palmer. The third grave is that of Sherwood.
The boards had been left off the entrance during their earlier inspection, and apparently no one had been there since. Then, at Scotty's suggestion, they looked for a place of concealment from which to hold vigil. Rick found it, high in an oak. It was an easy climb, and from the huge limb they could look through a screen of foliage and see without being seen.
Scotty's eye to thrift ever open, he entered into an engagement with one of the drivers that he would feed his mules potato peelings if he would split fifty-fifty with him on the prize. The driver agreed and a few days later he and his helper appeared at the door of the cookhouse with one of the mules to get his feed.
After dinner they sat over coffee on the porch and watched the sun sink beyond the reef. It was like a Pacific sunset colorful and somehow soothing. The boys walked to the pier, checked their tanks, and found them fully charged. Then, at Scotty's suggestion, they locked tanks and compressor in the cabin of the Water Witch.
Rick saw from the position of the spear in Scotty's gun that his friend had charged the weapon during the dive. He nodded, then turned and swam away, flippers flailing as though trying to hurry. He watched over his shoulder and saw the boat head for him. He was breathing hard from the excitement now, but he took a deep breath and got ready to dive.
But his attachment for Ben Edwards had intervened, and before he was really old enough to be thoroughly broken to harness, he had taken up his residence at Golconda. Here his desultory training continued, but a lesson in sled pulling was almost invariably turned into a romp, so that he had only acquired the rudiments of an education when he came under "Scotty's" supervision.
After a few minutes, Scotty reported again. "He's hiking in the direction of Whiteside. Thumb out. He wants a ride." "Don't give him one," Barby interjected urgently. "He might recognize you." "He's hitchhiking," Scotty explained. "He doesn't even know I exist." "What are his chances?" Rick asked. "Good. There's a fair amount of traffic." Rick waited, alert for Scotty's next report.
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