The tub was tilted so that the last drops of water could run out while the next was being emptied.
Carey’s eyes met the doctor’s, and the boy ground his teeth softly as he gazed in at the soft lustrous pearls drying rapidly from the heat of the air.
There they lay along the side of the great cask, seed pearls, pearls of fair size, and here and there great almond-shaped ones, while fewest of all were the softly rounded perfectly shaped gems, running from the size of goodly peas to here and there that of small marbles, lustrous, soft, and of that delicate creamy tint that made them appear like solidified drops of molten moonlight, fallen to earth in the silence of some tropical night.
The doctor shrugged his shoulders and turned away to watch the emptying of the next tub, which ended with even better result than the first.
“Bucket,” said the beachcomber, when this second watering had come to an end, and Jack, who knew what was expected of him, took a bunch of grass to make a brush, crept into the first tub, and while one of his fellows held the bucket ready, the pearls, worth scores, perhaps hundred of pounds, were swept into it.
The next tub was served the same, and then after the other tubs had had a final stir the beachcomber cried abruptly:
“On board. That’s enough for to-day. I’m dying for a drink.”
“Oh,” muttered Carey to himself, “I wish I could stop you drinking.”