I succumbed to the force of this argument, and we began to excavate back of the lily bed. With shingles (procured from men who were shingling Dr. Macey's barn) we dug the pit and covered the grape leaf with earth. Then, after driving away a prowling cat (who probably recollected funeral services performed over deceased robins in that very garden), we climbed the fence once more and set out to endure the weary interval of three days. It was Saturday morning, and ten o'clock. Not until Tuesday at the same hour could we unearth the treasure. Billy had said so. Three days were required, no more and no less. At the end of that time, to the minute, the magic forces that dwelt in the earth would have effected the change, and what we buried as simple brown sugar and the petals of roses would come forth in a new form--a form to make epicures sigh with content. We walked up the yard, by the woodshed, past the apple tree and the clothes-jack, and out to the street. But something had happened. A thick black cloud had descended and covered us. A few minutes before, the sun was shining gloriously, and we stood on the mountain peak of action and expectancy. Now it had all come to an end; the rose-leaves were buried, and before us in all their hideous length and tediousness stretched those three days. Three days! Three years rather! The face of the heavens was darkened and we wandered in gloom. We made an effort of cheerfulness and started for the pond with a view to catching Lucky-bugs. But we abandoned this almost immediately, and decided to hunt up Jimmy Toppan, who lived next door. Then we remembered that Jimmy had gone to his grandmother's farm in the country for the whole day. By this time the pall that overhung us had become deeper and more insufferable. We turned the corner of the street and gazed drearily at Dr. Macey's barn and the men at work on its roof. The old shingles were coming down with a clatter, and the odor of the new ones filled the air. Perhaps there was hope in shingles! We remembered that it takes but few strokes of a jack-knife, a little cutting and boring, to convert a shingle into a boat. It only needs pointing at the bows and rounding at the stern, the insertion of a mast and the fitting of a paper sail--half an old envelope will do. The boats thus fashioned would sail half across the pond--until stuck in the lily-pads. We chose two shingles and began to whittle. But there was no salt in it. Our minds wandered, and after a few moments Ed dropped his shingle, closed his knife, and put it in his pocket. "I'm goin' into the barn an' look for mice," he announced.