“Jim, see if those lads are still safe, and let them stretch a bit,” came a voice the chums recognized as that of Mr. Coleson. Jim, the colored Jamaican, came into the cabin with leisurely slowness and they saw, from his downcast face, the answer to a question in the minds of at least two cramped prisoners.
He was frowning and his whole bearing was dejected. They had found no treasure!
This was borne out by the faces of the white men when they came in and dropped heavily onto the cushioned side seats. “Look here,” said Senor Ortiga, morosely, fixing Nicky with a cold glare, “are you sure you remembered that message correctly?”
“I’m sure,” said Nicky, rubbing his arms and legs to get the blood into circulation again, still seated on the cabin flooring.
“Well, then,” said Mr. Coleson, “it’s all a myth, or someone has been ahead of us.”
“Repeat that message,” commanded Ortiga, not convinced.
Nicky, looking him in the eyes, did so. “‘At the end of the line, in the lowest part of the Dipper,’” he stated.
“And you say that’s the truth?”
“It’s the truth——”
“The whole truth?”