"This smuggling business must have been going on for a long time judging from the number of these paths and the way they are worn," Charley observed. "Hunter ought to be rich from the enormous profits he makes on the vile stuff. It can be bought for a dollar a gallon in Cuba and on this side, I believe, it retails for five dollars a gallon."
"The man who follows an evil trade, seldom prospers," said Captain Westfield, sagely. "In the end he has to pay for his ill-gotten gains. Generally he has to pay in this life, and he always has to pay in the hereafter."
"I believe you are right," Walter agreed. "I have noticed that saloon-keepers and that class never seem happy. Even those who make money seem to be cursed with drunken children or something equally bad, and if they have a shred of conscience, they must suffer terribly in secret for the misery they cause and the punishment they must expect in the life hereafter."
This conversation had brought them to the cache, and, pulling off their coats, they fell to work with their rude spades.
They worked with a will and sent the loose sand flying for the sun was sinking low and they wished to complete their task before dark. In a few minutes they had made a hole a couple of feet deep, and some ten feet across.
"We ought to be down to it," said Charley, with a puzzled frown. "It must be covered deeper than I thought."
They worked on for a few minutes longer, then Charley threw down the board with which he had been shoveling. "It has been taken away," he declared, voicing the conviction which had grown upon his companions. "They got it last night, after all, Chris."
"I doan see how, Massa Chas," objected the little darkey, "I watched dem come up de path an' I watched dem run away."
"They must have come back after you went to sleep," Charley said, but Chris shook his head decidedly.
"I doan sleep none arter dat," he persisted. "I laid awake and watched de balance ob de night."