On their way back they met Blumpitty asking, sadder than ever, if anybody knew how soon quarantine was going to be declared. “Pretty rough on the people who get shut out,” murmured Blumpitty.
“Rougher on those who get shut in,” said Cheviot.
Joslin was furious at either prospect. “Damned nonsense,” he said, “spoilin’ the finest boom since ’49, all on account of a little smallpox.”
They found Mr. Mar in the smoking-room, in the same weary attitude, head hung over his wide breast, hat hung on the sound knee, wooden leg stiffly slanting, eyes among the cigar ashes on the floor.
“Whatever else I do, father, I can’t go home without you.”
“Oh, I’ll take you home, my dear,” said Mar, with alacrity. “I’ve nothing to keep me here now, except my claims at Polaris.”
“Oh,” said the girl, losing some of her gloom, “have you got a share in the Mother Lode?”
He smiled faintly at miners’ superstition on his daughter’s lips. “I’ve got something worth looking after,” he said, “though, as I told Louis, I wish my good luck wasn’t always so inaccessible. Only two boats touched Polaris last year. I don’t know how it will be this summer. I wasn’t able to go in either of those that have set off so far. But I sent up a man to do the assessment work.”
“I’ll find a way of seeing what he’s made of his job.” Cheviot seemed to ratify some arrangement. Then turning to Hildegarde: “And I’ll follow you in the first ship.”