“It's one of them Sphinx things, don't you see? A sort of riddle or rebus, you know. You've got to study it out, as them old chaps did. But I fetched it. What comes after 'gills,' eh?”
“Pints, I suppose,” said Bray.
“And after pints?”
“Quarts.”
“QUARTZ, and there you are. So I looked about me for quartz, and sure enough struck it the first pop.”
Bray cast a quick look at Parkhurst's grave face. The man was evidently impressed and sincere. “Have you told this to any one?” he asked quickly.
“No.”
“Then DON'T! or you'll spoil the charm, and bring us ill luck! That's the rule, you know. I really don't know that you ought to have told me,” added the artful Bray, dissembling his intense joy at this proof of Eugenia's remembrance.
“But,” said Parkhurst blankly, “you see, old man, you'd been the last man at the spring, and I kinder thought”—
“Don't think,” said Bray promptly, “and above all, don't talk; not a word to the boys of this. Stay! Give me the paper and the sprig. I've got to go to San Francisco next week, and I'll take care of it and think it out!” He knew that Parkhurst might be tempted to talk, but without the paper his story would be treated lightly. Parkhurst handed him the paper, and the two men returned to the camp-fire.