“Yes, that’s it!” Vivian smiled her appreciation.
“But look!” Jeanne exclaimed. “What’s this? And where did it come from? Looks as if it had been at the bottom of the sea for a hundred years.”
“Not quite a hundred years perhaps,” Vivian said slowly, “and not at the bottom of the ocean; only Lake Superior. It’s an old-fashioned barrel-churn, and we caught it in a net.”
“How very strange!” Jeanne examined it closely. “It’s all screwed up tight.”
“Yes,” said Vivian, “the fastenings are all corroded. You couldn’t open it without tearing it up, I guess. It’s empty.” She tapped it with the ancient pistol butt, and it gave forth a hollow sound. “So what’s the use of destroying a fine relic just to get a smell of sour buttermilk fifty or more years old?” She laughed a merry laugh.
“But you got it in a net at the bottom of the lake?” Jeanne’s face wore a puzzled look.
“About fifty feet down.”
“If it’s full of air it would float,” Jeanne reasoned, “so it can’t be quite empty.”
“Lift it. Shake it,” Vivian invited.
Jeanne complied. “That’s queer!” she murmured after shaking the small copper-bound barrel-churn vigorously. “It’s heavy enough to sink, yet it does appear to be empty.”