“In a sense.” Osborne’s tone was grave. “Still, it was not what I’d now consider a large amount, and I’ve sometimes felt that I wouldn’t be sorry for an excuse to give it back.”
“I don’t suppose Clay ever felt that way,” Ruth said.
“One wouldn’t imagine so. What Clay gets he keeps. He’s not the man to let his imagination run away with him.”
Osborne rose and strolled across the lawn, but Ruth sat still in the gathering dark. It was a curious story she had heard, but she thought she could understand her father’s feeling regarding the gold. It had brought him bitter disappointment and permanent lameness, as well as hardships and suffering. There was, however, something puzzling in Clay’s determined attempt to break into the strong-room while the ship was going to pieces. He was insured against all loss, and he was not the man to take undue personal risks. Then Ruth’s thoughts returned to the gold, which had a fascination for her. After all, it was, perhaps, not impossible that it should be recovered. A spell of unusually fine weather or a change in the currents might make another attempt easier. Treasure often had been taken from vessels long after they had sunk. Ruth thought of Jimmy Farquhar, engaged in some mysterious occupation on an island in the North. It seemed extravagant to suppose that he had found the wreck; but it was not impossible. It would be a curious thing if he should bring up from the depth what her father had lost. But her father had said the gold brought bad luck in its train.
The darkness crept up across the lawn and hovered round the girl, enshrouding her, as she thought of Jimmy Farquhar on the lonely island in the North and puzzled over his connection with the ill-fated gold.
CHAPTER XI—FATHER AND SON
Osborne did not go to town on Saturdays, and he and Ruth were sitting in a shady corner of the lawn during the hot afternoon when a cloud of dust whirled up among the firs. The speed with which it streaked the climbing forest had its significance to Ruth, but when a big gray car flashed across an opening her expression changed.
“There’s no mistaking Aynsley’s trail,” Osborne laughed. “He blazes it on the bodies of straying chickens and hogs; but I imagine you noticed that he wasn’t alone.”
“I did; and I would have been quite as pleased if he had left his father at home.”
“So I surmised.” Osborne smiled. “It seems to be what the older generation is intended for; but Clay’s not the man to take kindly to the shelf and, everything considered, you couldn’t blame him. Aynsley’s the more ornamental—a fine figure of a man as he sits at the wheel; but his father’s the driving force that makes the machine go. So far, his son hasn’t made much of anything unless the material was put ready to his hand.”