The fisherman led the way to the shed, where the motorcycles were safely stored. The machines would be under cover in the event of rain, and there was a stout padlock on the door that ensured their safety against being stolen. The lads unloaded their supplies and each filled his pack with provisions.
"Have we got everything?" asked Frank finally. "Matches, flashlights, revolver, bullets, bread, salt, coffee—"
"Everything needed for an expedition to the South Pole," said Chet, shifting his pack to a more comfortable position on his shoulders.
A complete check-up showed that they had everything they needed; so, after bidding good-bye to the fisherman, who drew them a rough map showing the route they should follow in order to reach the caves, they set out up the path just back of the cottage.
"Nobody seems very encouraging about this trip," said Biff, as they ascended the hillside.
"What do you think can be the trouble down in the caves?" asked Joe.
"Rum-runners, I'll bet! In spite of what the fisherman says, I can't think of any other explanation," Frank replied. "They probably have some way of getting the stuff out to the road without being seen. Underground passages, or something of the sort."
"It seems likely. The shots and the yells were just to frighten people away."
"Well, we should soon find out."
Although the hillside path had not seemed very formidable from the shore, the boys found that it was steeper than it looked, and it was more than an hour before they finally reached the top of the cliffs. Here a magnificent view awaited them. Far below, the fisherman's cottage seemed to lie at their very feet, like a toy house. The ocean lay like a flat blue floor, far to the east, north, and south, and back of them was a great, barren expanse of tumbled rock, without sign of path or road. Venturing close to the edge of the cliff, the lads saw a sheer wall of rock, many feet in height, at the bottom of which the waves were lapping.