In the dead silence following this bomb-shell, Candon looked up and found himself looking straight into the eyes of the redoubtable T. C.
“Talk of sands,” she went on, talking to him and seeming to disregard the others, “and all your life has been sands and that nonsense, why it’s the sand in a man that makes him. Anyhow, I’ve not come all this distance to go back without having a try. Aren’t you going to dig?”
The scorn in her tone had no equivalent in her mind, no more than the spur on a rider’s heel has to do with his mentality. She was out to save B. C. from himself. Also, although she did not care a button for the hidden “boodle,” her whole soul resented turning back when on the spot.
Candon, standing before her like a chidden child, seemed to flush under his tan, then his eyes turned to Hank.
“Lord! let’s dig,” suddenly said Hank. “Let’s have a try anyhow, if it takes a month.” He stopped and stared at the hopeless looking task before him. “We’ll get the whole of the Chinks to help—”
“Chinks!” said Candon, suddenly coming back to his old self in a snap. “This is white men’s work—I brought you here and I’ll do it myself if I have to dig with my hands. It’s there, and we’ve got to get it.”
“I’ll help,” said Tommie.
“Well, I reckon we’ll all help,” said George, unenthusiastically.
It was a strange fact that, of the three men, Tommie had least power over George du Cane. Less attraction for him maybe, even though the very clothes on her back were his.