Webster put his hand to his throat, for there was that in the forlorn figure before him that told its own story.
“Why did you come?”
“Frank, old friend, how can you ask me that?”
“For the gold, eh? Well, it is there, in three calabashes—the dust, the coarser, and the nuggets. You can take two: one for you, one for—for her.”
“Damn the gold!” said Webster, as the blood mounted to his face.
“And so you have come?” Hume went on.
“Yes,” said Webster hopelessly; “I have come. You don’t seem glad to see me.”
“Yes, I am glad—why shouldn’t I be?” he added with a sudden flare. “I suppose you are hungry. I think there is something in my hut. Let us see.”
“Wait a minute, Frank. I have been looking forward to this meeting so long, and now you almost repulse me. What is it? have you anything on your mind?”
“No,” said Hume, looking around.