We were now close on the 125th degree of longitude, which I had marked as the limit of our eastward course, and my faith in more northerly latitudes was so little, indeed, that I dreaded making any change in our direction of travel.
"If we don't strike gold within the next couple of days," said Phil, "there isn't much likelihood of our being overburdened with wealth at the end of the trip."
Mac, who was pulling the nose rope of the leading camel, at once lifted up his voice in protest.
"For Heaven's sake be mair pleasant wi' yer remarks, Phil," he cried. "I was calculatin' on goin' home like a young millionaire——"
"You'll need to calculate again, then, Mac," interrupted Phil, "for I don't think we'll get a red cent out of the ground on this journey."
But the complainer was not yet satisfied.
"What's the guid o' bein' a golologist?" he demanded wrathfully. "I thocht——"
What he thought remained unspoken, for at that moment we heard a scramble behind, and looking round we saw the doughty Mac and his compatriot Stewart engaged in fierce conflict.
"I saw it first, ye red-heided baboon," roared the former, with remarkable fluency of expression.