With all the caution that their fear for Nicky permitted his comrades got close. The reef held.
“Listen,” cried Nicky, breathlessly, “I’m not hurt. Fellows—” He made a beckoning motion with his head, “I’ve—we’ve—found it!”
“The treasure?”
“The treasure! I’m sure of it. I fell through—and I can just touch something—like bricks—with my shoes!”
They had to go around the islet and approach Nicky from behind. The surface of the thin coating of land, held up and bound together only by its interwoven roots, was shaky enough, but they did not break through, and finally, by dint of much tugging, heaving and puffing, they drew Nicky back far enough so that he could scramble free and sprawl, gasping, half-laughing, on the surface by the jagged hole he had just left. Cautiously Cliff protruded his head.
“I see something!” he whispered, as if some one might hear——
“The island wasn’t as big or as high,” Tom said, peering too, “when the castaways brought the chests here. They buried them—they must have used picks to break a place in the coral.”
“Then they must have covered it over with boards and pulled the roots and earth over it—or else the wind and the birds have brought seeds and the islet has grown over the place,” Nicky added. “The boards were so rotted and the roots were so weak that my weight broke through!”
Like three active puppies digging a hole for bones, the chums pushed and scraped, tugged and tore at the roots; the weaker ones gave way and soon they had quite a goodly sized opening uncovered.
“There’s something down there!” gasped Cliff. “Gold bars, maybe! The chests must have been thrown away.”