“It doesn’t matter. He can’t escape us. We’ll have him to-morrow. Eva says you’ve found the emeralds. You’ve got a story of adventure to tell.” He hesitated. “Doctor Lang, the service you’ve done us has been incredible. You’ll get your reward, I hope.”
“I’m not worrying about my reward,” said Lang. He sank on a deck seat, feeling utterly played out. He heard Morrison going on, endlessly, it seemed, expressing his gratitude, his admiration, and he wished irritably that he would stop. Eva also suddenly appeared out of the lighted cabin.
“Have you such things as hot water aboard, and soap, and so on?” he roused himself to interrupt. “Also a razor and any clothes that you can lend me. I’ve slept and tramped and swum and mined in these till——”
“Of course. Of course,” Morrison warmly assured him. “I’ll fix you up. Come with me. When you’ve finished, Eva’ll have something for us to eat, and you can tell us your adventures. You must be starved, man!” he ejaculated, staring, as they went down into the cabin light. “You look as if you’d been through all the mills of the gods.”
Lang felt like it. They left him alone in a little cubby-hole called a bathroom with his toilet facilities. He managed to wash and to shave after a fashion, cutting himself several times, and to change to a suit of Morrison’s, coat and trousers, several sizes too large for him. His eyes and head ached, his hands trembled, and he thought he needed food.
He thought he was ravenously hungry, but when he came out to the spread table in the cabin he could not eat. There was tinned salmon—the sight of it nauseated him. Never again in his life would he eat anything out of a can. But he knew that he ought to take food. He swallowed coffee eagerly, and tried to eat a little corn bread—getting it down with difficulty. They urged things on him with anxious solicitude; they were greatly distressed that he could not eat.
It was heavily on his mind that he ought to explain to Morrison his disappearance from Panama; and he began to tell the story, feeling not quite certain of his words. It seemed to turn out a very funny story; Morrison presently roared with laughter at the account of his straits aboard the Lake Tahoe. Lang could not see the humor of it. He almost lost his temper, and switched to the story of his meeting with Carroll in Valparaiso. In another minute, he hardly knew by what transition, he found himself describing his shipwreck.
He was terribly tired. He wished that they would leave him alone. He leaned his head back against the wall for a moment, was afraid that he would go to sleep, and tried to collect himself.
“That’s not the most interesting thing,” he recommenced. “It’s what I found. Went right through it—the glacier, you know. Broke the glacier gate, as you called it. More than emeralds—far more important, to an arch-arch’logist. Camp of dead Indians, prehistoric men—copper knives—stone clubs—frozen solid. A carrier party—no mine there—historically more precious than rubies—I mean emeralds——”
He leaned his head back involuntarily and the words seemed to melt on his lips. He wanted extremely to be let alone for a minute, to rest and collect himself. Some one was pulling at him. He muttered angrily without opening his eyes; and then they did let him alone at last.