For a time there was silence beside the campfire. That silence was broken by a shout of laughter. It came from the party of treasure hunters. Florence’s barrel had been dragged from its sandy hiding place.
“I’ll just break in the head with the spade,” she said as it lay on its side.
“No! No!” Vincent Stearns took the spade from her. Setting the barrel on end, he rubbed the sand away to find a wooden cork. With the heavy handle of his hunting knife he drove this in, and at once a pungent odor filled the air.
“Rum!” said Vincent. “Very old rum!”
“And not gold?” Florence’s hopes fell.
“Just rum,” the photographer repeated. “Some trader buried it years ago. Poor fellow! He never came back!”
“I—I’ll pour it out.” Florence’s hand was on the small barrel.
“Oh, I—I wouldn’t do that!” Once again Vincent intervened. “They say old rum is very good for colds. That right, Swen?”
“Sure it is, in the winter.” Swen smiled broadly.
“Leave it to Swen and me,” Vincent suggested. And so it was left.