The boy and girl looked at each other in chagrin. They were both quite uncertain on that point. They had hurried away from the cavern too quickly when that grisly hand had moved.
"We were more scary than a pair of kids," Ben snorted. "I'm going back to the cave to make sure."
The girl had sudden visions of the skeletons, those vagabonds from the yacht, whom she did not like, the dizzy path, and the waiting buzzard.
"No, you don't," she shouted. "You've been there twice already. The third time something's bound to happen."
The skipper gave one big glorious laugh. He was having the time of his life, sure enough.
"Never mind, my gay young bucko, what's the difference? You might as well go for a divining rod, or fetch one of those crystal-gazers on Howard Street, that fool the Jackies on shore leave when they re three sheets in the wind. We ll just dig a little jag around here and try our luck."
Then he playfully tweaked the girl's ears, for that year it was not the fashion to cover them entirely (fortunately—for they matched the delicate colouring of the sands on which they stood).
"That 5 and the M mean five million gold pieces for your wedding chest, my lass."
"Now, who's bewitched by the island," she retorted, then executing that funny little dance of hers, a precursor of the modern fox-trot, called, for she was determined to banish that old cave idea from Ben's head:
"Come on, let's begin."
