"It looks to me," he said, "as if some one began digging and then found a better place. If he don't come back soon I'll take it." For about fifteen minutes he stood there, and I lay regarding him silently. At last he spoke again. "I think I'll go ahead," he said. "Possession is nine points of the law, and the fellow hasn't been here to claim it." "I wouldn't if I were you," I said. "That fellow's been there a hell of a long while." I left him there digging, and crawled away to a safe distance. In a few minutes he passed me. "Why didn't you tell me?" he demanded, reproachfully. "Because half of the company saw me digging there and didn't tell me," I said. I was prospecting around for another place when Art Pratt hailed me. "Why don't you come with me," he said, "instead of digging another place?" I went to where he was and looked at the dugout. It wasn't very wide, and I said so. Together we began widening and deepening the dugout, until it was big enough for the two of us. It was grueling work, but by supper time it was done. The night before, a fatigue party had gone down to the beach and hauled up a big field kitchen. Our cooks had made some tea, and we had been issued some loaves of bread. Art unrolled a large piece of cloth, with all the pomp and ceremony of a man unveiling a monument. He did it slowly and carefully. There was a glitter in his eyes that one associates with an artist exhibiting his masterpiece. He gave a triumphant switch to the last fold and held toward me a large piece of fresh juicy steak! "Beefsteak!" I gasped. "Sacred beefsteak! Where did you get it?" Art leaned toward me mysteriously. "Officers' mess," he whispered. "I've got salt and pepper," I said, "but how are you going to cook it?" "I don't know," said Art, "but I'm going up to the field kitchen; there's some condensed milk that I may be able to get hold of to spread on our bread."