“Yeah,” Dragonfly said, “but that’s also where Robinson Crusoe stepped on my neck!” “Oh, all right,” Poetry said, “That’s a dirty place on your neck which needs washing.” But Dragonfly didn’t think it was funny, which maybe it wasn’t very. Just above the X a little distance, we noticed there was a big V, a drawing of a broken twig, and a line pointing toward the cabin where we were right that minute. Also there was a line running from the top of the other arm of the V off in another direction and kept on going until it came to a drawing that looked like a smallish mound; and lying across it was a straight short line that made me think of a walking stick or something. It didn’t make sense until I noticed that Poetry’s pencil had missed tracing part of it, so I said, “Here, give me your pencil. There’s a little square on the end of this straight line.” I made the square, and then noticed there was a small circle at the opposite end of the straight line, so I traced that, and the whole map was done. It was Circus who guessed the meaning of the square and the circle I’d just made at the opposite ends of the straight line. “Look!” he said, “it’s a shovel or a spade! That circle is the top of the handle, and the square is the blade,” and we knew he was right. And that meant, as plain as the nose on Dragonfly’s face, that if we left this house and went back to where our trail had branched off, and followed the broken twigs in that other direction, we’d come to a place where the money was buried. Boy oh boy, oh boy! I felt so good I wanted to scream. It was just like being in a dream, which you know isn’t a dream, and are glad it isn’t--only in dreams you always wake up, which maybe I’d do in just another excited minute. “Is this a dream or not?” I asked my fat goat, and he said, “I don’t know, but I know how I can find out for you,” and I said, “How?” and he said, “I’ll pinch you to see if there is any pain, and if there _is_, it _isn’t_, and if there _isn’t_, it _is_.” He was trying to be funny and not being, ’cause right that second he pinched me and it hurt just like it always does when he pinches me, only worse. “Hey--ouch!” I said, and right away I pinched _him_ so _he_ could find out for himself that the map wasn’t any dream, and neither was my hard pinch on his fat arm. The rain was still roaring on the roof, sounding like a fast train roaring past the depot at Sugar Creek. We all sat looking at each other with queer expressions on our faces and mixed-up thoughts in our minds. I was smelling the dead something or other. The odor seemed to come from the direction of the kitchen on account of it was on the side of the cottage next to the steep hillside, which was as steep almost as a cliff, and right above its one window I noticed there was a stubby pine tree growing out of the hill, its branches extending over the roof.