When he awoke, it was to find his chums up before him. Chris had breakfast cooking and Captain Westfield had just returned from taking a morning plunge in the surf. Walter was not in sight, but he soon appeared bearing a sack full of turtle eggs which he had found on the beach.
"I've been exploring our island," he announced. "Say, some of the fishermen must come over here to hold their celebrations. There are several well-worn paths on the island. I followed two of them and they both led into the same place, a little clearing in a thick bunch of palms. It looks as though there had been several fights there for the ground is all trampled up as though it had been dug, and I found a couple of long, queer-looking clubs and this full bottle. What's in it, Charley? I can't make out the label."
Charley took the big black bottle and examined the label that had puzzled his chum. "It's in Spanish," he announced, then translated rapidly: "Aguardiente, 100 Proof, Manufactured by Sicava & Sons, Santiago, Cuba." He pulled the cork and a pungent reeking odor filled the air.
"Why, it's rum," said Captain Westfield.
"A kind of rum," Charley agreed, "only far stronger and more fiery. No wonder the fishermen fight if this is the kind of stuff they drink. It would make a rabbit spit at an elephant."
"Throw it away," Walter said. "We don't want the vile stuff."
"No, I think I will keep it," said his chum, thoughtfully. "I have a notion that this little bottle is going to be mighty useful some time."
"How's that?" Walter questioned, but the spell of silent thoughtfulness was still upon Charley and he paid no heed to the question.
"I wish you fellows would go down and pull the nets into the skiffs," he said, as soon as breakfast was over. "I will be down as soon as I take a dip in the surf."
"Why, what do you want the nets on so early for?" Walter protested. "We don't fish except at night, do we?"