Then there was another pause. I poked my foot among the lilies where we had concealed the shingles we had used as trowels. They were waiting for Tuesday morning. Ed spoke again. "Let's dig 'em up and look at 'em!" Already I was fishing for the shingles. In half a minute we had brought the grape leaf once more to the light of day. We unfastened it and gazed upon its contents. It was a quarter past ten. Fifteen minutes had passed since we buried the mixture. "Don't you suppose they're done?" I queried. Ed's only reply was to take a pinch between his fingers and convey it to his mouth. I did the same. Then we ate the whole lot. It tasted--and on this point I will pledge my word--it tasted exactly like rose-leaves and brown sugar! CHAPTER IV NAPOLEON JONES On an afternoon early in the following week, Jimmy Toppan, Ed Mason, and I were seriously engaged at the frog pond. We had discovered, in the morning, an outlet, through which all the water was in danger of escaping. The town authorities seemed to have overlooked this channel, but we could not let their neglect cause public suffering. To have the pond run dry was too serious to contemplate! "The water wouldn't _all_ go out," asserted Ed Mason, "'cos there's a place, back of the Court House, where there ain't any bottom." "That ain't in _this_ pond," Jimmy corrected, "it's over in Davenport's." But Ed stuck to his opinion. "It _is_ here. An' there was a volcano here once, an' when the volcano dried up, the pond came." We looked with considerable interest toward the site of the extinct crater. But all was placid blue water now, and whatever might be concealed beneath the surface remained a secret. Our duty was not the less clear, and we set out to build a dam that should keep in the water, volcano or no volcano, bottomless pit or not. On the terrace above us sat an old man, who watched our proceedings, chewed tobacco vigorously, and whittled small sticks. We had seen him, sitting on the same bench, in the morning. Indeed, he had been there for days, perhaps weeks, past, until he had become a fixture in the landscape. Ed Mason climbed the terrace to get another armful of stones for the dam. As he was returning, the old man called Ed to him, and offered, as a gift, a little musket whittled out of soft pine. The stones were laid down promptly, the gift accepted, and the two engaged in conversation. Jimmy and I could not hear what was being said, but we observed the incident of the little musket, and our interest in the dam waned. We went up the terrace to see if there were any more muskets to be distributed. But when we arrived, the old fellow pointed at Ed with his jack-knife, and addressed us. "He wants to know if I ever was in a battle!"