|Ceramic by Philip Eglin|
“Look here's another one. Another jug,” said the brother, prodding the ground with some stick used as a makeshift spade.
“How many do you think there are?”
The brother shrugged and examined what he'd just ripped from the ground. “Do you think they're old? They look old.”
“If they're old we could be rich.”
“If mum's rich dad will have to come back.”