Following, with the light, he directed them to the inlet where most of the cases were now being carried away. He spoke rapidly to the Seminole who seemed to be the leader of the Indian faction, gave him some coins, and then ordered the three chums into his boat—the same one, for all they knew, which they had seen the night before.
“Now I see how they got away after scaring us,” whispered Tom as the crew of four stoutly-built white men used their oars as paddles, working the boat further along the inlet until they came to a point where they made still another turn and went down another narrow stream toward the Sound.
“Just ‘ring-around-a-rosy,’” Cliff declared. “That makes the spot those three trees are on an island—a key—after all!”
“But we’ll get no chance at any treasure, there,” said Nicky dejectedly.
Apparently the nearest of the crew thought this was important enough to call to the attention of his captain. He turned and repeated Nicky’s words, with a guffaw.
“Treasure, hey?” cried the bearded white man. “Who told you there was treasure there?”
“Why—” Nicky stammered, hesitated, then decided that it could make no difference anyway whether he told it all or not—with Mr. Neale unaccounted for, with Sam and his sloop gone, with their own selves captive, what chance had they for treasure? They’d be lucky, he thought, to be set ashore, marooned like old-time sailors—and spared a worse fate!
He told of finding the old can on the islet.
“Hum-m-m!” mused the man, clearing his throat. “Maybe you won’t find a treasure—but, anyhow, you’ll get a square meal—then, we’ll see!”
“Where are you taking us?” demanded Nicky, once more brave.