I AM afraid the last chapter was rather dull. It is always dull in books when people talk and talk, and don’t do anything, but I was obliged to put it in, or else you wouldn’t have understood all the rest. The best part of books is when things are happening. That is the best part of real things too. This is why I shall not tell you in this story about all the days when nothing happened. You will not catch me saying, “thus the sad days passed slowly by”—or “the years rolled on their weary course”—or “time went on”—because it is silly; of course time goes on—whether you say so or not. So I shall just tell you the nice, interesting parts—and in between you will understand that we had our meals and got up and went to bed, and dull things like that. It would be sickening to page: 18 write all that down, though of course it happens. I said so to Albert‐next‐door’s uncle, who writes books, and he said, “Quite right, that’s what we call selection, a necessity of true art.” And he is very clever indeed. So you see.

I have often thought that if the people who write books for children knew a little more it would be better. I shall not tell you anything about us except what I should like to know about if I was reading the story and you were writing it. Albert’s uncle says I ought to have put this in the preface, but I never read prefaces, and it is not much good writing things just for people to skip. I wonder other authors have never thought of this.

Well, when we had agreed to dig for treasure we all went down into the cellar and lighted the gas. Oswald would have liked to dig there, but it is stone flags. We looked among the old boxes and broken chairs and fenders and empty bottles and things, and at last we found the spades we had to dig in the sand with when we went to the seaside three years ago. They are not silly, babyish, wooden spades, that split if you look at them, but good iron, with a blue mark across the top of the iron part, and yellow wooden handles. We wasted page: 19 a little time getting them dusted, because the girls wouldn’t dig with spades that had cobwebs on them. Girls would never do for African explorers or anything like that, they are too beastly particular.

It was no use doing the thing by halves. We marked out a sort of square in the mouldy part of the garden, about three yards across, and began to dig. But we found nothing except worms and stones—and the ground was very hard.

So we thought we’d try another part of the garden, and we found a place in the big round flower bed, where the ground was much softer. We thought we’d make a smaller hole to begin with, and it was much better. We dug and dug and dug, and it was jolly hard work! We got very hot digging, but we found nothing.

Presently Albert‐next‐door looked over the wall. We do not like him very much, but we let him play with us sometimes, because his father is dead, and you must not be unkind to orphans, even if their mothers are alive. Albert is always very tidy. He wears frilly collars and velvet knickerbockers. I can’t think how he can bear to.

So we said, “Hullo!”
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And he said, “What are you up to?”

“We’re digging for treasure,” said Alice; “an ancient parchment revealed to us the place of concealment. Come over and help us. When we have dug deep enough we shall find a great pot of red clay, full of gold and precious jewels.”

Albert‐next‐door only sniggered and said, “What silly nonsense!” He cannot play properly at all. It is very strange, because he has a very nice uncle. You see, Albert‐next‐door doesn’t care for reading, and he has not read nearly so many books as we have, so he is very foolish and ignorant, but it cannot be helped, and you just have to put up with it when you want him to do anything. Besides, it is wrong to be angry with people for not being so clever as you are yourself. It is not always their faults.

So Oswald said, “Come and dig! Then you shall share the treasure when we’ve found it.”

But he said, “I shan’t—I don’t like digging—and I’m just going in to my tea.”

“Come along and dig, there’s a good boy,” Alice said. “You can use my spade. It’s much the best—”

So he came along and dug, and when once page: 21 he was over the wall we kept him at it, and we worked as well, of course, and the hole got deep. Pincher worked too—he is our dog and he is very good at digging. He digs for rats in the dustbin sometimes, and gets very dirty. But we love our dog, even when his face wants washing.

“I expect we shall have to make a tunnel,” Oswald said, “to reach the rich treasure.” So he jumped into the hole and began to dig at one side. After that we took it in turns to dig at the tunnel, and Pincher was most useful in scraping the earth out of the tunnel—he does it with his back feet when you say “Rats!” and he digs with his front ones, and burrows with his nose as well.

At last the tunnel was nearly a yard long, and big enough to creep along to find the treasure, if only it had been a bit longer. Now it was Albert’s turn to go in and dig, but he funked it.

“Take your turn like a man,” said Oswald—nobody can say that Oswald doesn’t take his turn like a man. But Albert wouldn’t. So we had to make him, because it was only fair.

“It’s quite easy,” Alice said. “You just crawl in and dig with your hands. Then page: 22 when you come out we can scrape out what you’ve done, with the spades. Come—be a man. You won’t notice it being dark in the tunnel if you shut your eyes tight. We’ve all been in except Dora—and she doesn’t like worms.”

“I don’t like worms neither.” Albert‐next‐door said this; but we remembered how he had picked a fat red and black worm up in his fingers and thrown it at Dora only the day before.

So we put him in.

But he would not go in head first, the proper way, and dig with his hands as we had done, and though Oswald was angry at the time, for he hates snivellers, yet afterwards he owned that perhaps it was just as well. You should never be afraid to own that perhaps you were mistaken—but it is cowardly to do it unless you are quite sure you are in the wrong.

“Let me go in feet first,” said Albert‐next‐door. “I’ll dig with my boots—I will truly, honour bright.”

So we let him get in feet first—and he did it very slowly and at last he was in, and only his head sticking out into the hole; and all the rest of him in the tunnel.
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“Now dig with your boots,” said Oswald; “and, Alice, do catch hold of Pincher, he’ll be digging again in another minute, and perhaps it would be uncomfortable for Albert if Pincher threw the mould into his eyes.”

You should always try to think of these little things. Thinking of other people’s comfort makes them like you. Alice held Pincher, and we all shouted, “Kick! dig with your feet, for all you’re worth!”

So Albert‐next‐door began to dig with his feet, and we stood on the ground over him, waiting—and all in a minute the ground gave way, and we tumbled together in a heap: and when we got up there was a little shallow hollow where we had been standing, and Albert‐next‐door was underneath, stuck quite fast, because the roof of the tunnel had tumbled in on him. He is a horribly unlucky boy to have anything to do with.

It was dreadful the way he cried and screamed, though he had to own it didn’t hurt, only it was rather heavy and he couldn’t move his legs. We would have dug him out all right enough, in time, but he screamed so we were afraid the police would come, so Dicky climbed over the wall, to tell the cook there to tell Albert‐next‐door’s uncle he page: 24 had been buried by mistake, and to come and help dig him out.

Dicky was a long time gone. We wondered what had become of him, and all the while the screaming went on and on, for we had taken the loose earth off Albert’s face so that he could scream quite easily and comfortably.

Presently Dicky came back and Albert‐next‐door’s uncle came with him. He has very long legs, and his hair is light and his face is brown. He has been to sea, but now he writes books. I like him.

He told his nephew to stow it, so Albert did, and then he asked him if he was hurt—and Albert had to say he wasn’t, for though he is a coward, and very unlucky, he is not a liar like some boys are.

“This promises to be a protracted if agreeable task,” said Albert‐next‐door’s uncle, rubbing his hands and looking at the hole with Albert’s head in it. “I will get another spade,” so he fetched the big spade out of the next‐door garden tool‐shed, and began to dig his nephew out.

“Mind you keep very still,” he said, “or I might chunk a bit out of you with the spade.” Then after a while he said—
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“I confess that I am not absolutely insensible to the dramatic interest of the situation. My curiosity is excited. I own that I should like to know how my nephew happened to be buried. But don’t tell me if you’d rather not. I suppose no force was used?”

“Only moral force,” said Alice. They used to talk a lot about moral force at the High School where she went, and in case you don’t know what it means I’ll tell you that it is making people do what they don’t want to, just by slanging them, or laughing at them, or promising them things if they’re good.

“Only moral force, eh?” said Albert‐next‐door’s uncle. “Well?”

“Well,” Dora said, “I’m very sorry it happened to Albert—I’d rather it had been one of us. It would have been my turn to go into the tunnel, only I don’t like worms, so they let me off. You see we were digging for treasure.”

“Yes,” said Alice, “and I think we were just coming to the underground passage that leads to the secret hoard, when the tunnel fell in on Albert. He is so unlucky,” and she sighed.
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Then Albert‐next‐door began to scream again, and his uncle wiped his face—his own face, not Albert’s—with his silk handkerchief, and then he put it in his trousers pocket. It seems a strange place to put a handkerchief, but he had his coat and waistcoat off and I suppose he wanted the handkerchief handy. Digging is warm work.

He told Albert‐next‐door to drop it, or he wouldn’t proceed further in the matter, so Albert stopped screaming, and presently his uncle finished digging him out. Albert did look so funny, with his hair all dusty and his velvet suit covered with mould and his face muddy with earth and crying.

We all said how sorry we were, but he wouldn’t say a word back to us. He was most awfully sick to think he’d been the one buried, when it might just as well have been one of us. I felt myself that it was hard lines.

“So you were digging for treasure,” said Albert‐next‐door’s uncle, wiping his face again with his handkerchief. “Well, I fear that your chances of success are small. I have made a careful study of the whole subject. What I don’t know about buried treasure is not worth knowing. And I never knew more page: 27 than one coin buried in any one garden—and that is generally—Hullo—what’s that?”

He pointed to something shining in the hole he had just dragged Albert out of. Oswald picked it up. It was a half‐crown. We looked at each other, speechless with surprise and delight, like in books.

“Well, that’s lucky, at all events,” said Albert‐next‐door’s uncle.

“Let’s see, that’s fivepence each for you.”

“It’s fourpence—something; I can’t do fractions,” said Dicky; “there are seven of us, you see.”

“Oh, you count Albert as one of yourselves on this occasion, eh?”

“Of course,” said Alice; “and I say, he was buried after all. Why shouldn’t we let him have the odd somethings, and we’ll have fourpence each.”

We all agreed to do this, and told Albert‐next‐door we would bring his share as soon as we could get the half‐crown changed. He cheered up a little at that, and his uncle wiped his face again—he did look hot—and began to put on his coat and waistcoat.

When he had done it he stooped and picked up something. He held it up, and you will page: 28 hardly believe it, but it is quite true—it was another half‐crown!

“To think that there should be two!” he said; “in all my experience of buried treasure I never heard of such a thing!”

I wish Albert‐next‐door’s uncle would come treasure‐seeking with us regularly; he must have very sharp eyes: for Dora says she was looking just the minute before at the very place where the second half‐crown was picked up from, and she never saw it.