And that was how it looked to me. There we were, Jibby Jones and Wampus Smale and Tad Willing and Skippy Root and myself, and we had enough lunch to last all day, and we had a spade and a pick and an axe and a long rope. It did look as if getting that treasure would be the easiest thing in the world. I felt as if my hands were already scooping up gold money and silver money and letting it drip through my fingers. I can’t hardly tell you how simple it seemed to get that buried treasure, and how easy. Just try yourself to see how easy it looked to me. Just behind us was the rotted old brick farmhouse where Jibby said the treasure was not hidden. Over yonder was the dead pine tree in the corner of the lot--the tree Jibby Jones said was the signal pine, under which the pirate’s treasure was probably buried--and between was nothing but a few rods of ground with weeds and tall grass on it. And we had the digging tools. All we had to do was walk across to the dead pine tree and dig. So I said so. “Come on!” I said. “Let’s hurry and get that treasure before anybody else comes along to bother us.” But Jibby Jones did not pick up the lunch-basket or make any move toward the dead pine tree. He stood and smoothed his nose with his forefinger. “No,” he said, “let’s take a swim first. Let’s go to the creek and find a swimming-pool and take a swim.” “We can’t,” I said. “There never was a swimming-pool in Murrell’s Run, and there isn’t one now.” “I don’t know,” Jibby said. “Up in the Catskill Mountains there are streams, and sometimes there is no pool in a place, and the next year there is one. You can’t always tell, George. I’m lucky about pools; when I want to swim there usually is one.” “Well, you won’t find one on Murrell’s Run,” I said. But I ought to have known better; a fellow never ought to say what Jibby Jones will find or won’t find. “Come on! Let’s dig for the treasure,” Skippy Root said. “You act as if you were afraid to, Jibby.” Jibby did not answer this directly. He rubbed his nose and looked at Wampus Smale. “Your father owns this land, don’t he, Wampus?” he asked. “Yes, he owns all of it,” Wampus said. “And who lives in the new farmhouse at the other end of the farm?” Jibby asked. “Why, Bill Catlin,” Wampus said. “He rents from father. What has that got to do with it?” Jibby rubbed his nose again, and I thought I saw him grin. “What kind of lights does he use?” Jibby asked. “What do you mean?” Wampus asked. “I don’t know what you are talking about.” “I mean lights,” said Jibby Jones. “Lights for the evening, when he is sitting at a table reading the Farmers’ Almanac or something. You know what lights are, don’t you, Wampus? The Romans had oil lights, and my great-great-grandmother had whale-oil lights, and in New England they once used tallow dips. Does Bill Catlin use kerosene lamps or electric light or gas light?”