How long had Peggy been in sight? Hang that fly. Far down the cart track leading through the trees to Atkinson’s, was a huge old oak tree. Roger could see its wide trunk, just where the cart track bent and disappeared. Only a moment ago, he could have sworn, there was no one there. And yet … How long had he been squinting at that fly? … Now, clear enough, he could see Peggy, with her back to the tree, facing him, with one hand outstretched, and the other lifted, pointing just about at two o’clock. Q for Squashy Hat … And then … Yes … Down went her left hand and up went her right … straight above her head. D … Danger. Squashy must be leaving the farm. He must be close by. Peggy had dropped flat to the ground in front of that old oak, and was wriggling back into the bushes. She was gone.
Roger, flies forgotten, turned and snaked away from the screen of bracken to a holly bush, behind which it would be safe to stand. From there he looked up the road along the edge of the wood. Was Titty on the look out for him. She was. You could count on her for that. Q.D. … Roger saw her repeat his signal and vanish to signal it on to Dorothea. A moment later, faint and distant, he heard Dorothea’s whistle. Far out on the Topps the prospectors knew that Squashy Hat was on the move before ever he had left Atkinson’s wood. Good work. Jolly good work. Indians themselves couldn’t have sent the message quicker. And Roger crawled back to his post among the brackens and watched.
Yes. There he was. Roger, peeping through the bracken stalks, looking across the road, saw him coming up the Atkinsons’ cart track. Thin, long-legged, Squashy Hat was swinging along between the ruts. He was close to the gate. He was coming out on the road. He was on the road, within a foot or two of the silent watcher in the bracken. How loud his feet sounded. Hobnailed boots, thought Roger. All the Swallows and Amazons had rubber soles, because, as John had said when he was smaller than Roger was now, “You never know when you may get a chance of going aboard somebody’s boat.” Rubber soles were good for scouting too. Clump, clump, clump, the hobnails rang on the hard road, and between the clumps the sharp tap of an iron-shod walking-stick. Squashy Hat did not seem to mind how much noise he made. Roger shifted a little to see the better. What was he carrying in the other hand? A milk-can? And he had a haversack over one shoulder. Roger wondered whether haversacks that swung at your side were as good as knapsacks that bumped up and down on your back. And there was his hammer, slung in a ring at the side of his haversack. Anybody could see he was a prospector. And talk about squashy hats! Roger had never seen a squashier.
And where was Peggy? Roger looked again down the cart track into Atkinson’s wood. Why didn’t she come along? Nothing to wait for after the enemy had left. Roger expected to see her come out from among the trees. But there was no sign of her. And Squashy Hat would be out of sight in a moment. He was moving with a long, easy stride, not hurrying, but getting fast over the ground. Going uphill, too, thought Roger … What would happen next? And suddenly he drew in his breath so sharply that it almost turned into a yelp.
Someone, something had clutched him by the ankle.
“Shut up,” hissed Peggy. “You’ll give us all away. It’s only me, you blessed gummock.”
“But I never saw you cross the road,” said Roger. “How did you do it?”
“Just walked,” said Peggy. “I Indianed a bit so as to get to the road a bit below the gate. Then I only had to wait till I could hear old Squashy pounding up the hill. Then I slipped across and Indianed along this side just for practice.”
“I didn’t mind, really,” said Roger.
“Lucky he didn’t hear you,” said Peggy. “I say. Did you see what he’s carrying?”
“Milk-can,” said Roger.
“It isn’t,” said Peggy. “It’s the rummest thing. I had a good look at it over the wall, while he was waiting for Mrs Atkinson to bring him out his sandwiches. It’s a pot of white paint.”
“Whatever for?”
“I don’t know. Come on and report to Nancy. We’ll pick up the others on the way. See if we can snake up to Titty without her spotting us. Come on. The main thing is not to touch anything that can make a noise. I’ll go first. You keep close behind and stop dead if you see me stop …”
*
The prospectors on the Topps had been hard at work, though you cannot search as wide a strip of ground with a comb of only four teeth as you can with one of eight. They had been into two or three old workings, but had found none that looked at all like the place the old miner had described. They were well out in the wilderness when Dorothea’s whistle brought work to an end. They looked back towards Tyson’s wood. There she was, and there could be no mistake about the signal. A moment later she had vanished.
“Good for her,” said Nancy to herself, and waved to the others.
The four of them came together on a rocky hillock and waited. It seemed a long time before they caught sight of Squashy Hat coming along the Dundale road.
“Sure it’s him?” said John.
“Of course it is,” said Nancy. “Nobody else walks like that. Perfect ostrich.”
“I can’t see Dot,” said Dick, “or any of the others.”
“They’ll be snaking,” said Nancy.
“There’s one thing,” said Susan at last. “If we can’t see them, I don’t suppose he can.”
Nancy looked at John. Just the faintest ghost of a grin showed on both their faces. It was not fear of a rival prospector that was bothering Susan. Hers was an almost native fear lest this grown-up stranger should guess that he was being used for scouting practice by Titty and Roger. She did not worry so much about Peggy and Dorothea. They, after all, had mothers who perhaps would not mind. But she knew that her own mother, away in the South with the whooping Bridget, would much rather Titty and Roger fell down, or caught colds, or got dirty all over, than that anybody should even think they were letting themselves be rude. John looked at Nancy, and Nancy looked at John. They both knew Susan very well.
“There they are,” said Susan. “It doesn’t matter if he does see them now.”
The scouts had made good use of every bit of cover, and they were already on the Topps and well away from the Dundale road. Nancy waved to them, and they came on at a steady trot. Squashy Hat was making no attempt to come up into the country from which yesterday he had been so successfully fended off. He was sticking to the road. He disappeared now and then where the road dipped, but did not leave it until he was near the other side of the Topps, when they saw him climbing along the steep side of Grey Screes.
The scouts, breathless and terribly hot, dropped on the ground beside the prospectors.
“He’s got a pot of paint,” panted Peggy.
“He didn’t see any of us,” said Roger.
“White paint,” said Titty. “It’s a new tin. I was only two yards from the road when he went by.”
“Oh, rot,” said Nancy. “It’s probably something to drink.”
“I thought it might be a milk-can,” said Roger.
“It’s paint,” said Peggy. “I read the label on it.”
“He must be up to something jolly rum,” said Nancy.
“Perhaps he isn’t prospecting at all,” said Susan hopefully.
“He’s got his hammer,” said Roger.
“Anyway,” said Nancy, “so long as he’s up there, we can see him. No danger of being surprised. We may as well get on with the work.”
“What about our knapsacks?” said Roger. “Won’t it be easier to carry the grub if it’s inside.”
“It is inside,” said Susan. “Sandwiches and a thermos in each knapsack.”
“Inside us, I meant,” said Roger.
“That’s not a bad idea,” said Nancy. “And then we can travel light, and come back to collect the baggage on the way home.”
*
All afternoon a long line of prospectors worked across the Topps and back again making sure they missed nothing on two wide strips of that desolate country. All afternoon Squashy Hat was moving slowly about on the steep slopes of
Grey Screes. For a long time even Nancy began to doubt whether he was indeed prospecting. Why, when the gold was somewhere on the Topps, should Squashy Hat clamber about those rocky slopes? But late in the afternoon they heard him. They were all together after looking at an old working, when, perhaps because for a moment no one was talking, they heard a faint, a very faint click far away.
“Listen!” “Listen!” “Sh!” Everybody was asking for quiet from everybody else. They heard the click again. From far away, up the steep hillside, the sound carried in the windless air.
Dick had the telescope.
“I can see him tapping,” he said. “Look here. I’ll drop my hand next time I see him tap … Now …” His hand dropped, and a moment later that faint metallic click was heard by all of them.
“He’s prospecting, all right,” said Nancy.
“But what on earth did he want the white paint for?” said John.
Time went on, and Susan, remembering what had been said that morning, began to be worried about getting back to Mrs Tyson’s. They worked across to the hillock where they had left their knapsacks, and then moved slowly on towards the Great Wall and Tyson’s wood.
“We simply must be in time tonight,” said Susan.
“We can’t go while he’s still on the prowl,” said Nancy.
“He’s coming down,” said John.
And then there was a sudden yell from Roger, who was taking a turn with the telescope, and at first had failed to find him.
“We told you it was white paint. We told you it was white paint. Look what he’s done!”
The telescope was passed from hand to hand. Squashy Hat was indeed coming fast down the mountain-side, but up there, where he had been during the afternoon, he had left his mark. Everybody could see it when he knew where to look for it … a round staring splash of white among the grey rocks.
“But what’s it for?”
“It may be just a trick,” said Nancy. “To make us think he’s up to something there when he’s really busy somewhere else.”
Even Susan forgot Mrs Tyson and the time, while looking at that white spot, like a target, painted in that impossible place, and at the painter, Squashy Hat, who was hurrying down towards the road.
“Perhaps he’s coming down now because he’s seen us clearing off,” said Peggy.
“Let’s not go,” said Titty.
“Let’s pretend to,” said Nancy. “We can see if he goes home if someone goes up that tree by the old pitstead. Gosh, it is awful that we’ve got to go down to Tyson’s and leave him with the whole Topps to himself.”
They went down the gully in the rock, past the bramble thicket into the clearing the charcoal-burners had left. It looked even better than it had the day before. John climbed to the topmost branches of the old ash tree, from which he could see Atkinson’s farm and long stretches of the Dundale road.
“Can you see him?” said Nancy.
“He’s walking jolly fast,” said John.
“Come along,” said Susan. “We’re late already.”
“We must make sure he goes home,” said Nancy.
“Go on,” said John, from the tree-top. “I’ll catch you up.” Susan started slowly on, but stopped. What was the good of getting back before anybody else?
Every now and then, when Squashy Hat was hidden by a dip in the road, there was a new alarm lest, now that they had gone, he should secretly turn up again towards the Topps. But he came steadily on, and, at last, the look-out announced that he had been seen at Atkinson’s. The look-out, a little ashamed now, slid down the tree and hurried after Susan.
“We simply couldn’t have gone without making sure,” said Nancy.
They went down the path at a quick, desperate trot. An angry bell sounded down in the valley below them.
“Where’s Dick?” cried Dot suddenly.
“Dick!” shouted John.
“Coming!” His voice sounded from far above them. They slowed up a little to wait for him, though that bell went on ringing.
“Hurry up,” called Dorothea.
He caught them up at the bottom of the wood. In his hand was something like a blade of grass. He threw it away as they ran through the gate.
Mrs Tyson was standing outside the farm porch, and the bell was in her hand.
“It’s not a bit of good my trying to keep things hot for you,” she said.
“We’re awfully sorry,” said Susan. “We did try …”
“It isn’t only once,” said Mrs Tyson. “It’s every day …”
Roger wanted to say that they had been there only two days, but he thought better not.
The prospectors sat down to supper in deep gloom.
CHAPTER XIII
CAN’T ANYBODY DOWSE?
THEY had nearly finished the rice and stewed prunes that came at the end of that melancholy meal when Dick came out with a surprising sentence.
“You know,” he said, “I do believe there is water up there.”
“In the beck?” said Nancy. “But the beck’s gone dry.”
“Just behind the place where the charcoal-burners had their fires,” said Dick.
Everybody stared at him.
“He doesn’t really mean it,” said Titty sadly.
“But he does,” said Dorothea. “Don’t you, Dick?”
“Well, I found a lot of those green rushes,” said Dick, “the ones that you peel and they look like soapsuds inside. And the man who came to my school last term to look for water said those rushes were the surest sign there was …”
“What?” said Nancy. “A dowser? I wish we had one. There used to be one in the village, and long ago he found water for Beckfoot. Before we were born. But he’s gone away now.”
“The man who came to the school called himself a water diviner,” said Dick. “They ran short of water in the playground, and he found a spring for them. But he probably knew it was there.”
“Did you see him do it?” said John.
Nancy was leaning eagerly forward. She had pushed her plate impatiently away. “What did you see him do?” she asked.
“He had a forked stick,” said Dick. “Hazel. He held one end in each hand, and then he walked about until the stick began to twist. At least he said it did. And they found water there all right. They dug, and it came bubbling up only a few feet down.”
“How did he hold the stick?”
There was something in Nancy’s voice that stopped Titty’s last spoonful of prune juice just as she was lifting it. Nancy, she knew in a moment, was off on some new idea.
“Like this,” said Dick. “In both hands. He made me hold it, but nothing happened. He made us all take turns holding it.”
“And did it happen with any of you?”
“One man said it did. But I don’t see how it could.”
“Come on,” said Nancy. “It won’t be dark for another hour. Hazel, you said. There are lots at the bottom of the wood. Giminy. If it worked with him why shouldn’t it work with one of us? I bet it will. Come on, Peggy. Buck up, you Swallows. Roger doesn’t want a second helping.”
“No, thank you,” said Roger, when Susan looked at him.
Titty swallowed that last spoonful of juice.
They crowded into the passage and out through the farm door. Just by the gate into the wood Nancy found what she wanted.
“What about this,” she said, cutting a forked branch of hazel and slashing off the smaller twigs from it.
“The branches weren’t as long as that,” said Dick.
“Well, get it just right,” said Nancy, busy with her knife. “Will that do?”
“That’s what it looked like.”
“Now then,” said Nancy. “How do I hold it?”
“No,” said Dick. “The man had his knuckles underneath, fingers on the top, and the ends of the stick came out between his fingers and his thumb.”
“Where’s some water?” said Nancy. “We ought to try where we know there really is some.”
“There�
��s none coming down the beck,” said Peggy.
“What about the pump?” said John. “There must be a spring somewhere near it, to keep it going in spite of the drought.”
“What’s going to happen?” said Roger.
“Water divining,” said Titty.
Nancy was walking slowly down the yard towards the pump by the barn. She was holding the forked hazel twig, one branch in each hand, and with bent head, watching the twig, hardly lifting her feet from the ground, was moving slowly along. Dick was close beside her. So was John. Peggy was walking backwards in front of her. Dorothea was watching Dick.
“What ought it to do?” said Nancy.
“The water diviner said it dipped every time he came near water.”
“Does it feel like dipping?” asked Peggy.
“Not yet, you gummock,” said Nancy. “It’s still a long way from the pump.
She moved a little faster.
“I’m bound to come over the spring if I go right round the pump.”
She came to the pump. She squeezed past between the pump and the wall of the old barn. She walked all round it.
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