“It’s just as much mine as yours.”

“Well, anyhow, we settled to go halves in all we found,” said Ambrose, “and you wouldn’t have known it was valuable without me. A honey-pot indeed!”

He laughed jeeringly.

David was becoming more and more hurt in his mind. He sat looking sulkily at the antique, and when Ambrose laughed he had half a mind to take up his spade and smash it. Instead of this he suddenly put out his hand, took off the lid, and felt inside it. His fingers touched something cold.

“There’s money in it!” he exclaimed. “Oh, Ambrose, look!”

On his outstretched palm there glittered three bright golden pieces.

“Coins?” said Ambrose, looking impressively at his brother.

He took one in his hand and examined it carefully, turning it over and over. There was a head on it, and some queer figures he could not understand, but he knew they were numbers.

“I told you it was Roman,” he said; “here’s a date in Roman figures.”

“What is it?” asked David.

Unfortunately Ambrose could not tell. There was a v and an x, and a great many straight strokes, but he had no idea what they represented. He sat, puzzling over it with a deep frown.

“They look just like sovereigns, don’t they?” said the matter-of-fact David; “and I thought old coins were never bright. They’re generally all green and brown and ugly.”

“Well,” said Ambrose, putting the pieces of money back into the crock; “we’ve got some splendid things for the museum at last. Aren’t you glad we came?”

David had not quite recovered his temper. He felt that it ought to be more thoroughly understood that it was he who had made both the discoveries; then he should be satisfied. But he could not bear Ambrose to take this tone of superiority. As they picked up their tools and prepared to start homewards he said, “I should think you’re glad I came, because I found the pot, and the money too.”

“You ought to say ‘coins,’ not ‘money,’” said Ambrose loftily.

It is sad to record that, before they were half-way home, the partners had fallen into open dispute over their booty. David wished to carry it; Ambrose refused; wrangling followed for the rest of the way, and when they stole guiltily in at the vicarage gate David was in tears, and Ambrose flushed and angry. No one was in the garden to notice their return, and, having replaced the tools, the crock was carried upstairs hidden in the breast of Ambrose’s tunic. In the passage they met Nurse.

“You’ve been out early, Master Ambrose,” was all she said, and passed on, unsuspicious.

So far the adventure had been attended with golden success at every step, yet, strange to say, it had not brought much pleasure with it. There was the crock of gold certainly in the museum upstairs; but there was also a load on the boys’ minds which hindered all enjoyment of it. How could they display it to their mother when it was the price of disobedience?