work, for he had no tools but a spade he had had at the seaside, and
when that broke, as it did almost at once, he had to go on with a piece
of hoop-iron and the foot of an old bedstead. He went on till long past
dinner-time, and his hands were torn and bleeding, his back felt broken
in two, and his head was spinning with hunger and tiredness. At last,
just as the tea-bell rang, he reached his hand down deep into the hole
he had made, and felt something cold and round. He held his candle down.
It was a pot, tied over with brown paper, like pickled onions. When he
got it out he took off the paper. The pot was filled to the brim with
gold coins. Hildebrand blew out his candle and went up. The cook stopped
him at the top of the cellar stairs.

'What's that you got there, Master Hildy? Pickles, I lay my boots,' she
said.

'It's not,' said he.

'Let me look,' said she.

'Let me alone,' said Hildebrand.

'Not me,' said the cook.

She had her hand on the brown paper.

Hildebrand had heard how treasure-trove has to be given up to
Government, and he did not trust the cook.

'You'd better not,' he said quickly; 'it's not what you think it is.'

'What is it, then?'

'It's--it's _snakes_!' said Hildebrand desperately--'snakes out of the
wine-cellar.'

The cook went into hysterics, and Hildebrand was punished twice, once
for staying away from school without leave, and once for frightening the
servants with silly stories. But in the confusion brought about by the
cook's screams he managed to hide the pot of gold in the bottom of the
boot cupboard, among the old gaiters and goloshes, and when peace was
restored and he was sent to bed in disgrace he took the pot with him. He
lay long awake thinking of the model engine he would buy for himself,
also of the bay pony, the collections of coins, birds' eggs, and
postage-stamps, the fishing-rods, the guns, revolvers, and bows and
arrows, the sweets and cakes and nuts, he would get all for himself. He
never thought of so much as a pennyworth of toffee for Ethel, or a
silver thimble for his mother, or a twopenny cigar for Mr. Pilkings.

The first thing in the morning he jumped up and felt under the bed for
the pot of gold. His hand touched something that was not the pot. He
screamed, and drew his hand back as quickly as though he had burned it;
but what he had touched was not hot: it was cold, and thin, and alive.
It was a snake. And there was another on his bed, and another on