Another curving flight of gold ended in a swift whit-whitter of lessening leaps and a final disappearance; but this time the detaining hand was Morris Pugh's. His eager face held no doubt as to his desire, though his mind evidently hesitated over a reason for it.
"You really, sir, ought not," he began; then paused.
"Why?" asked Ned quietly.
Ted answered. "Because it isn't really yours. You never earned it, I'll bet, and the wealth of the world is labour----"
Ned emptied his handful on the turf and interrupted him.
"I give them up! There they are, your sovereign remedies! What are you going to do with them? Why! spend them to please yourselves, of course, as I was doing, as every one does! So I repeat, it wouldn't matter a hang to the world or any of us three here present if I were to make----"
A third sovereign would have followed the other two, but for the arresting power of a new voice.
"Perhaps not; but it would be a most distinct injury to one Peter Ramsay, M.D. So just hand it over, will ye?"
Close behind them stood a sturdy, thick-set man, with bright red-brown eyes and bright bronze-red hair.
He had evidently come down one of the steep mountain sheep-tracks, leading his pony, for it stood beside him now, its hoofs half hidden in the moss, while it stretched its inquiring muzzle towards the glittering pile of sovereigns, as if suspicioning them as a new kind of corn.