Little Tim was in the garden, industriously filling in a rather large hole with a tiny shovel. His brow was furrowed in concentration, his tongue poked out the side of his mouth. This wasn’t just any hole; this was a *mission*. A top-secret, clandestine, bury-the-evidence kind of mission.
His neighbor, Mr. Henderson, a man whose eyebrows permanently resided at the level of his hairline, peered over the fence. He adjusted his spectacles, a glint of suspicion in his eye. Mr. Henderson had seen enough suspicious activity in his seventy years to fill a library, most of it involving rogue squirrels and errant garden gnomes.
“What are you up to, young man?” he asked, his voice a low rumble that could probably be heard by the geraniums.
Little Tim paused, shovel poised mid-air. He looked at Mr. Henderson, then at the hole, then back at Mr. Henderson with a look that suggested he was considering burying *him* in the hole.
“I’m…uh…relocating a gnome,” Tim mumbled, his voice barely audible.
Mr. Henderson raised an eyebrow, the one that wasn’t already permanently raised. “A gnome? I haven’t seen a gnome in this garden since…well, since before you were born.”
Tim’s face contorted into something akin to a strangled gopher. “It was…a very shy gnome,” he stammered. “Prefers underground living. Very private.”
Mr. Henderson, despite his suspicion, had a soft spot for children’s imaginative games. “Ah, yes, of course,” he said, though the skepticism was still etched onto his face like a roadmap to confusion. “A shy, underground gnome. Well, good luck with that.”
He turned to leave, but Tim, fueled by a sudden surge of bravery (or perhaps panic), blurted out, “He’s got a…a treasure!”
Mr. Henderson stopped dead in his tracks. Treasure? In his garden? His eyes widened, and his perpetually-raised eyebrows shot up another half inch.
Tim, emboldened by his neighbor’s reaction, continued, “It’s…it’s a really big treasure! Made of…of…chocolate coins!”
Mr. Henderson chuckled, a low rumble that vibrated the fence. “Chocolate coins, eh? Well, that does explain the unusually large hole.” He winked at Tim and gave a hearty chuckle. “Keep up the good work, young man. Keep up the good work.”
He ambled away, muttering something about calling the archaeologist society.
Tim, completely relieved, grabbed his shovel and continued filling in the hole, a smug smile spreading across his face. He’d successfully diverted suspicion from the actual contents of the hole: his pet hamster, Mr. Nibbles, who had been having a rather enthusiastic escape attempt involving a significant amount of soil and a half-eaten carrot. Mr. Nibbles, from his subterranean prison, squeaked happily. The relocation, it seemed, had been a complete success.
