“That’s because the cavern’s so clean and dry. Let’s look at the packages. I say, smell this one. There’s no mistake about it—cloves!”
Vince nodded, and they tried others, which gave out, some the same unmistakable odour, others those of cinnamon and nutmeg.
Further examination of some small, heavy, solid packets left little doubt in the lads’ minds that they were dealing with closely folded or rolled pieces of silk, and they ended their examination by trying to interpret the brands with which some of the packages were marked.
“One can’t be sure without opening them,” said Vince eagerly; “but I feel certain that these are silk, the other packages spice, and the kegs have got gloves and lace in them. There are two kinds.”
“Yes; some are larger than the others. Shall we open a few of them, to see if they’ve been destroyed by time?”
“No, not yet,” replied Vince thoughtfully. “Let’s go and have a look at that boat sail and the oars. Those oars ought to be old and worm-eaten—ready to tumble to pieces—and the sail-cloth like so much tinder!”
Mike nodded, and followed him rather unwillingly; for the keg nearest to his hand fascinated him, and he longed intensely to force out the head.
It was not many steps to where the boat gear stood and lay, and Vince began to haul it about after the first glance.
“Look here, Ladle!” he cried; “these things are not so very old. The canvas is as strong as can be, and it can’t be so many years since these oars were marked with a hot iron.”
“Oh, nonsense!” said Mike, who did not like to give up his cherished ideas; “it’s because they’re so dry and safe here.”