Then the rope was drawn up and coiled, and both took a long and envious look at the cargo that had been landed there at some time or other, before making their way along the fissure to their own place.
“I don’t believe any one would do as we’ve done, and come along there,” said Mike, as soon as they were safely back. “Perhaps, if you’re right about that stuff being new, these smuggling people don’t, after all, know of this cave.”
“They must have seen it when they were going and coming in their boat, and would have been sure to land and come in.”
“Land where?” said Mike scornfully. “No boat could land here, and nobody could wade in, on account of the quicksands. But I’m right, Cinder. These things are awfully old, and they’ll be ours after all.”
“Very well: we shall see,” said Vince. “But I don’t feel disposed to stop here now. Let’s get back home.”
“Yes,” said Mike, with a sigh, “let’s get back home;” and, after setting up a fresh bit of candle, they started for the inner cave, ascended the slope, and made their way along the black passage to the spot where they put out and hid their lanthorn.
This done, with the caution taught by the desire to keep their hiding-place secret, Vince stepped softly on to the opening, and was about to pass along to the end, but
he paused to peer out through the briars to see if all was right, and the next moment he stood there as if turned to stone. Mike crept up to him and touched his shoulder, feeling sure from his companion’s fixed attitude that something must be wrong.
The answer to his touch was the extension of Vince’s hand, and he pointed upward and toward the side of the deep rift.