He tugged at the first one, rocking it back and forth to free it from the ground. I dropped to my knees and did the same with the one on the other end. His came free, and then mine. He lifted out the middle one, which was free now that the others were removed. They lay side by side on the old leaves in a shaft of sunlight. They had brownish splotches of rust on them and were encrusted with the damp black sod in which they had lain, but to me they were more beautiful than three Grecian urns. I lit a cigarette, suddenly conscious that my shirt was stuck to me with perspiration, and knelt there just staring at them and savoring the tremendous exultation of the moment.

They were the standard one-gallon pails used in that part of the country for storing syrup, the same as the ones I’d seen in his cabin. Each had a wire handle and a tight, press-fit lid of the same diameter as the pad. I saw that after he had pressed on the lids he had dipped the tops in melted paraffin. Not bad, I thought; if he’d known about silica-gel dehydrators he could have eliminated rust altogether on the inside.

“You want to open ’em?” he asked.

I nodded. “Just one.”

I set one of them upright between us. He took out his knife, scraped away some of the paraffin, and used the back of the blade to pry up the lid. It came free at last and fell to the ground. I looked inside, and for an instant I was almost afraid he’d hear the pounding of my heart. There was only one way to describe it, I thought; it was a gallon of money.

It was full. It was jammed with packages of fives, tens, twenties, and fifties. They were laid in flat, they were bent to fit the curve of the pail, they were doubled, they were put in every way imaginable to take advantage of every bit of space. Tens were jammed against fifties, and when I lifted a package of fives, there was a sheaf of hundreds under it. I tossed it back in. I didn’t want him to see the trembling of my hands.

“She sure is a pile of money, ain’t she?” he said.

It was time to get rid of him. I ground out the cigarette and nodded. “All right. You can put the lid back on. We’d better get going.”

The steep-sided hole they had come from was just behind me and slightly to the right. He was bent over the pail, pressing down the lid. I shot a quick glance behind me and stood up. I stepped backward and when I felt the edge of the hole under my foot I let it slide on in.

“Damn ... !” I cursed explosively, waved my arms, and fell. My shoulder hit the log and I rolled off it to the ground.

He sprang over and knelt beside me. “Hey, Mr. Ward. Are you okay?”

I pushed myself to my hands and knees. “I’m all right,” I said. “I just forgot about that damned hole.”

“Here. Let me help you up.” He took hold of my arm.

I tried to stand. The moment I put my right foot on the ground I sucked my breath in sharply and collapsed. Drawing a sleeve across my face to wipe off the sweat and dirt, I said shakily, “It’s my ankle. Wait a minute.”

He watched as I unlaced my shoe. I grimaced realistically as I pulled it off and felt the ankle and foot. “It’s hot,” I said. “But I don’t think it’s broken. Probably just a bad sprain.”

“You think you can walk on it?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Wait till I get my breath and I’ll try again.”

I did, and gave an even better performance. “No use,” I said.

“Mebbe I could cut you something for a crutch.”

“Not with that knife? it’d have to be something pretty heavy. It’ll have to be bandaged, too.” I moved the foot slightly and said, “Whew!”

“Well...” he said hesitantly, “I’ve got a roll of bandage stuff at the cabin. And some tape.”

I considered it, looking doubtful “I don’t know. . . .”

“Mebbe we could tear up our shirts and make a bandage.”

“It’ll take a longer strip,” I told him. “Regular roll bandage, or a torn-up sheet. And I’ll still have to have a crutch.”

“I don’t see no other way,” he said. “I’ll just have to go to the cabin. I got an