It was mid-afternoon when they sat down to the first meal of the day. It was a regal feast, for Swen had left two large, juicy steaks, and Vincent had contributed a large box of chocolates.
While they were in the midst of this repast there came from the bay a piercing scream. It was followed by a most ludicrous laugh.
“That,” exclaimed Florence, jumping up, “is old Dizzy, the dear, crazy old loon! He survived the storm.”
She threw him a large piece of fresh meat. After swallowing it at a gulp, he favored her with one more burst of laughter, then went splashing away.
“Do you know,” she said as she resumed her place, “we’ve got a few days left here? I, for one, am through with mysteries. I’m all for having a hilarious good time—boating, swimming, fishing, hiking, and never a care!”
This program was carried out until quite suddenly out of a clear sky mystery once more caught them. Nor will any of them live to regret it.
It all came about because Florence suggested that they row out to the reef where the unlucky Pilgrim had gone aground.
To them the reef was a mournful sight. Nothing appeared above the placid surface. A little way down on the jagged rocks were the boilers and engines of the Pilgrim.
“And look!” Florence exclaimed. “Barrels down there. Three barrels. Not very far down either. Barrels of oil, Swen said they were. Must have shaken out of the hull, like peas out of a pod. But barrels of oil. You’d think they might be worth something.”
Then, like a flash, a thought came to her. “That man on the schooner, the diver, what was he after? Could it be—?” She dared not trust herself to think further. Swen was coming that night with supplies. She would tell him about the barrels.