“What’s that for?” asked he.
“You wait and see,” replied Jude. “Here’s the cache. Mind where you’re walkin’ or you’ll be into it.”
The cache was well hidden among the bay cedars. The opening, eight feet long by six broad, was covered over with short poles spread with cut branches gone withered with the sun. When they had got the covering off, Jude tied one end of the rope to a tree close by and dropped the other end into the cache. She swung herself down by it, and Ratcliffe followed.
From the floor of this place a step, two feet high, gave entrance to the cave.
“You see,” said Jude. “It may rain till it’s black, but it never floods the cave. The water drains off before it can rise the height of the step.”
There were a candle and some matches inside the cave entrance. She lit the candle and led the way.
Ratcliffe was astounded, less by the size of the place, than the stacks of goods,—canned peaches, condensed milk, corned beef, tomatoes, ox tongues, Heinz’s pickles, Nabisco wafers. The old brig, making for some gulf port, must have been a floating Italian warehouse as far as cargo was concerned.
“I don’t wonder at Satan not wanting Sellers and Carquinez to spot all this,” said he. “Why, there must be five hundred pounds’ worth of stuff here. Aren’t you afraid that nigger who skipped from you at Pine Island may split?”
“Sakes, no! He was too much afeared of Satan. Satan was always threatening to skin him. Besides, he doesn’t know. We told him this place was Turtle Island, and that’s a hundred and fifty miles to s’uth’ard. You trust Satan to keep a thing dark. Here, catch hold of the candle while I collect.”
There were two sacks folded up on the floor. She started collecting things, and when the sacks were half-filled Jude, clambering out of the pit, hauled them up by the rope.