“Well, those must be smuggled goods, anyhow,” said Mike.
“Can’t be.”
“What are they, then? I’ll be bound to say that those little kegs have all got ‘Hollands’ or French spirits in them, and the packages are silk and velvet, and the other parcels laces and things—perhaps tobacco.”
“But we never heard of smuggling here. Who can it be?”
“Well, that’s what they are, for certain,” said Mike. “It’s just like what one’s read about. They must be ever so old—a hundred years, perhaps—and been put here and forgotten.”
“Perhaps so,” said Vince.
“Then we’ll claim them for ours,” said Mike decisively. “They can’t belong to anybody else now. Nobody can be alive who brought them a hundred years ago.”
“No,” said Vince; “but I don’t see how we can claim them. I say, though, it shows that boats can get into the cove.”
“Or could at one time.”
“Place wouldn’t alter much in a hundred years. I do wish, though, we had brought the rope. Perhaps as soon as we touch those bales they’ll all tumble into dust.”