Jim laughed softly.
“I thought that was it,” he said. “Look here—you stay at the edge with the light, and I’ll hold one end of the stick, and you can hang on to the other. That will make it all right. There’s no sense in out both paddling in.”
Wally assented, more or less reluctantly; and Jim took off his boots and stockings and rolled his trouser-legs high. Then, he stepped carefully into the black pool.
“By Jove, it’s cold!” he said.
“What’s the bottom like?”
“Fairly smooth.” He moved on, becoming less cautious. Then he uttered an exclamation.
“What’s up?” came from Wally.
“I’ve stubbed my silly toe against something—my own fault.” Jim answered. “Why, it’s another tin!”
He stooped, feeling in the water. Presently he let go of the stick, and plunged both hands in: and in a moment turned, carrying something that was evidently heavy. He put it on the rock at the edge of the pool, and stepped out of the water. Wally flashed the light on the treasure-trove, and then whistled softly.
“Petrol!”