e made a careful study of the whole
subject. What I don't know about buried treasure is not worth knowing.
And I never knew more than one coin buried in any one garden--and that
is generally--Hullo--what's that?'

He pointed to something shining in the hole he had just dragged Albert
out of. Oswald picked it up. It was a half-crown. We looked at each
other, speechless with surprise and delight, like in books.

'Well, that's lucky, at all events,' said Albert-next-door's uncle.

'Let's see, that's fivepence each for you.'

'It's fourpence--something; I can't do fractions,' said Dicky; 'there
are seven of us, you see.'

'Oh, you count Albert as one of yourselves on this occasion, eh?'

'Of course,' said Alice; 'and I say, he was buried after all. Why
shouldn't we let him have the odd somethings, and we'll have fourpence
each.'

We all agreed to do this, and told Albert-next-door we would bring his
share as soon as we could get the half-crown changed. He cheered up a
little at that, and his uncle wiped his face again--he did look hot--and
began to put on his coat and waistcoat.

When he had done it he stooped and picked up something. He held it up,
and you will hardly believe it, but it is quite true--it was another
half-crown!

'To think that there should be two!' he said; 'in all my experience of
buried treasure I never heard of such a thing!'

I wish Albert-next-door's uncle would come treasure-seeking with us
regularly; he must have very sharp eyes: for Dora says she was looking
just the minute before at the very place where the second half-crown was
picked up from, and _she_ never saw it.

CHAPTER 3. BEING DETECTIVES

The next thing that happened to us was very interesting. It was as real
as the half-crowns--not just pretending. I shall try to write it as like
a real book as I can. Of course we have read Mr Sherlock Holmes, as
well as the yellow-covered books with pictures outside that are so badly
printed; and you get them for fourpence-halfpenny at the bookstall when
the corners of them are beginning to curl up and get dirty, with people
looking to see how the story ends when they are waiting for trains. I
think this is most unfair to the boy at the bookstall. The books are
written by a gentleman named Gaboriau, and Albert's uncle says they are
the worst translations in the world--and written in vile English. Of
course they're not like Kipling, but they're jolly good stories. And we
had just been