In utter apathy Dick picked it up.
"Wouldn't you see if they've cleaned it entirely?" suggested Flint.
With listless fingers Edmonstone withdrew the elastic and opened the pocket-book.
By this time the moon had mounted high in the clear southern sky; by her pure white rays they might have read small print. Flint's heart smote him; it was by his doing they had carried so many notes, through a fad of his about opening their banking account with hard cash; at cheques the bushrangers might easily have turned up their noses, as bushrangers had done before. But now, as it was—poor, poor young devil!
A cry broke the silence, and rang out loud and wild upon the still night air. It came from Flint's side. He turned to find his companion tottering and trembling.
Dick Edmonstone had dropped the pocket-book, and was nervously counting a roll of crisp, crackling papers.
"They are all here!—all! all!" he whispered in a strange, broken voice.
"Never!"
"Yes, all—all! Only think of it; our fortune is not lost, after all—it's made—the key to it is in my hand again! Jack, the fellow had pity on me. No, I mean on us. I don't mean to be selfish, Jack; it's share and share alike, between you and me, and always will be. But if you knew—if you knew! Jack, I'll put in that good word for him—I'll make it more than words, if ever I get the chance! For I do owe him something," said the poor fellow, carried away by reaction and excitement, so that his breaking voice trembled between sobs and laughter. "I do owe that Sundown something. God bless him—that's all I say."
But Flint said nothing at all; he was much too amazed for words.