“That’s right enough, sir,” said Griggs, “but precious—”
“Precious!” said Bourne, with more contempt in his tone. “A fancy word.”
“I hadn’t finished what I meant to say, sir,” said Griggs.
“Finish then,” cried Bourne. “I don’t believe you are a slave to the lust for gold.”
“Slave, eh?” said Griggs merrily. “Britons never shall be slaves, as you sing—nor Murricans neither. No, sir. I was going to say precious useful, when you cut me short.”
“I beg your pardon, Griggs.”
“Granted, sir. I was speaking as a man who has toiled for years and years to get a decent living by his plantation, and I must say, after all my disappointments I should like to drop all at once upon that gold city where the stuff’s lying waiting to be carted away.”
“Yes,” said the doctor; “after all our lost labour it would be pleasant.”
“I don’t want to wear gold chains and rings, and to keep carriages,” continued Griggs, “but I should like to have enough of the yellow stuff to put in a bank, and one might do a good deal of good if one made a pile.”
“Yes, I quite agree with you,” said the doctor. “We all do, and we’ll work till we find it.”