Part 27 (1/2)
”Here, I say,” cried Dallas, ”don't begin making quotations.”
”Quotations?”
”Yes; that's what the despairing old chap says in Byron's comedy, 'I'm doomed--I'm doomed!' and the other fellow says, 'Don't go on like that; it sounds like swearing when it ain't.'”
”Dal,” cried Abel pa.s.sionately, ”how can you be so full of folly when we are in such a desperate state?”
”Because I believe in 'Never say die!'” cried the young man cheerily.
”You are cold, man. Allow me, my lord, to spread this purple robe gracefully over your n.o.ble shoulders to keep off the draught. I say, Bel, these blankets are getting jolly black.”
”Thanks, Dal.”
”And with your lords.h.i.+p's permission I will hang this piece of tapestry over the doorway to enhance the warmth of the glow within. Haven't got a couple of tenpenny nails in your pocket, have you? Never mind; these pegs'll hold it up. Whoo! it does blow. We shall be quite buried in the snow by morning.”
”Yes, once more,” said Abel gloomily.
”So much the warmer for it, Bel, and save the wood. I say, old chap, we ought to be thankful that we have such a snug den. It would be death to any one to be out to-night.”
”Yes; and they would have ceased hunting for that golden myth, and be at rest.”
”Well, you are a cheerful chap to-night! I say, I wonder what has become of old 'My son,'--Tregelly, the Cornishman?”
”Dead or broken-hearted over this weary search.”
”Dead? Why, that fellow wouldn't die a bit. Broken-hearted? His heart's made of stuff much too tough. He'll turn up some day to tell us he has made a big find.”
”Never. He's dead by now.”
”Don't you prophesy until after the event.”
”Dal,” said Abel, as he sat, gaunt of visage, darkened by exposure, and totally different from the bright, eager fellow of a few months earlier.
”Yes?”
”You will not go away and leave me?”
”I must, old fellow. The coals for the human grate are nearly out, and I must fetch some more.”
”If you go you will find me dead when you come back. To die alone!
Horrible!”
”Nonsense! Old Norton will come in every day and have a look at you if I ask him. He's a good old chap, Bel; I wish he had had better luck. I say, though, this is a rum game. You and I are now living in this rough dog-kennel, and bad as our luck has been, we have been turning out gold at the rate of, say, five hundred a year. Not bad that for beginners.”
”And it takes all we get to barter for the wretched food,” groaned Abel.
”The prices are horrible.”
”Well, things are dear, and bad at that, as our American friends say.
But we only have to double our turn-in and we shall grow rich.”