Scratch worked for at least a quarter of an hour, and then ran to the ditch and lapped a little, and came back to work again, while Jem stood by at a prudent distance, and puffed his pipe commensurately, and wished he had somebody with him. Presently he saw something shining in the peaty and sandy trough, about two feet from the surface, something at which Scratch tried his teeth, but found the subject ungenial. So Jem ran up, making sure this time that it was the pot of money. Alas, it was nothing of the sort, nothing at all worth digging for. Jem was so bitterly disappointed that he laid hold of Scratch, and cuffed him well, and the little dog went away and howled, and looked at his bleeding claws, and stood penitent, with his tail down. Nevertheless, the thing dug up had cost some money in its time, for gunmakers know the way to charge, if never another soul does. It was a pair of gun–barrels, without any stock, or lock, or ramrod, heavily battered and marked with fire, as if an attempt had been made to burn the entire implement, and then, the wood being consumed, the iron parts had been kicked asunder, and the hot barrels fiercely trampled on. Now Jem knew nothing whatever of guns, except that they were apt to go off, whether loaded or unloaded; so after much ponderous thinking and fearing—_fiat experimentum in corpore vili_—he summoned poor Scratch, and coaxed him, and said, “Hie, boy, vetch thic thur thinʼ!” When he found that the little dog took the barrels in his mouth without being hurt by them, and then dragged them along the ground, inasmuch as he could not carry them, Jem plucked up courage and laid them by, to take them home that evening. After his bit of supper that night, Jem and his wife held counsel, the result of which was that he took his prize down to Roger Sweetlandʼs shop, at the lower end of the village. There he found the blacksmith and one apprentice working overtime, repairing a harrow, which must be ready for Farmer Blackers next morning. The worthy Vulcan received Jem kindly, for his wife was Jemʼs wifeʼs second cousin; and then he blew up a sharp yellow fire, and examined the barrels attentively. “Niver zeed no goon the likes o’ thissom, though a ‘ave ‘eered say as they makes ‘em now to shut out o’ tʼother end, man. Whai, her hanʼt gat niver na brichinʼ! A must shut the man as shuts wiʼ her.” “What wull e’ gie vor un, Roger? Her bainʼt na gude to ussen.” “Gie thee a zhillinʼ, lad, mare nor her be worth, onʼy to bate up vor harse–shoon.”