Candon did not look at her. It seemed to him just then, in that moment of disappointment, that Fate was carefully explaining to him the futility of his works and his life, and in an immeasurably short space of time all sorts of little details, from his Alaskan experiences to his absurd rescue of Tommie, all sorts of weaknesses, from his enjoyment of robbery to his inaction in letting that freighter pass, rose before him. He struggled to find more words.
“It’s just me,” said he, and fell dumb and brooding.
“Well,” said George, “it’s a long way to come—to be fooled like this—but there’s an end of it. How many men would it take to move that stuff?”
“Six foot of sand and square yards of surface; it would take a steam dredger,” said Hank, in a hard voice.
Tommie’s eyes were fixed on Candon. She knew little of the whole thing, but she knew suffering when she saw it. From what he had said and from his attitude, she could almost read Candon’s thoughts. The movie business is a teacher of dumb expression.
“D’you mean to say you’re going to turn this down?” asked Tommie.
“What’s the good?” said George. He was feeling just as Hank felt. The absence of whales’ bones, the flatness of landing on an ordinary beach where they had expected to see strange sights, had deflated them both. They did not doubt the bona fides of B. C., but as a medicine man he was at a discount.
They saw before them hopeless digging. The thing was not hopeless, but in that moment of defection and disappointment it seemed impossible.
“Well,” said Tommie, “next time I start on a show of this kind, I’ll take girls along—that’s all I’ve got to say.”