"Right," Drake said. "Take the other end."
The camp was built in a clearing a hundred yards from the beach, on the site of an abandoned native village. They had been able to re-thatch several huts, and there was an old copra shed with a galvanized iron roof where they stored their supplies. Here they got the benefit of any breeze from the sea. Beyond the clearing, the gray-green jungle sprang up like a solid wall.
Sorensen and Drake set the case down. The skipper, who had accompanied them with the newspapers, looked around at the bleak huts and shook his head.
"Would you like a drink, Skipper?" Sorensen asked. "Afraid we can't offer any ice."
"A drink would be fine," the skipper said. He wondered what drove men to a godforsaken place like this in search of imaginary Spanish treasure.
Sorensen went into one of the huts and brought out a bottle of Scotch and a tin cup. Drake had taken out his screwdriver and was vigorously ripping boards off the crate.
"How does it look?" Sorensen asked.
"It's OK," Drake said, gently lifting out the metals detector. "Heavily greased. Doesn't seem like there was any damage—"
He jumped back. The skipper had come forward and stamped down heavily on the sand.
"What's the matter?" Sorensen asked.