“I will that, Mas’r Harry,” he whispered, “for I don’t know how it is, I’m feeling rather queer myself. It’s this stuff, I think. I’ve got hold of one of these little tiles, and one can’t see it, but it feels yaller.”
Tom passed another plate into my hands, when running my fingers over it my heart beat more rapidly, for I could feel an embossed surface that told of cunning work, and I longed intensely to get a light and examine what we had found though I knew such a proceeding would be folly.
In a few minutes Tom was back, and a draught from the bottle we had brought revived us, so that we quickly cleared out the wet sand and water that kept filtering in, and then as fast as we could grope drew out plate after plate and placed them in one of the coffee-bags Tom had brought.
We did not need telling that it was gold. The sonorous ring told that as plate touched plate. The darkness, as I said, was intense. But I could almost fancy that a bright yellow phosphorescent halo was spread around each plate as we drew it from its sandy bed.
“But suppose, Mas’r Harry, as it’s only brass?” whispered Tom suddenly.
“Brass, Tom? No, it’s gold—rich, yellow gold; and now who dares say I’m a beggar?”
“Not me, Mas’r Harry. But I won’t believe it’s gold till I’ve seen it by daylight. ’Tain’t lead, or it wouldn’t ring. ’Tain’t iron, for it will cut. I’ve been trying it.”
“Hush, Tom!” I said hoarsely. “Work—work! or it will be day, and we shall be discovered.”
As I spoke I bent down into the hole to drag out what felt like a vase, but all beaten in and flattened. Then another, and four or five curiously shaped vessels.
“Fetch another bag, Tom,” I whispered; for the one we now had felt heavy, and I wanted them to be portable.