“Go-o-old!” the pugilist, Garvin, was repeating in awe-stricken whispers.
“Go-o-old! My Gawd! Look at it. And he said there was barrels of it—barrels—where that comes from!”
A water-soaked canvas bag, roughly slit open, was spread out on the settee. What appeared to be a score or so of small pebbles was lying on the canvas, beside what seemed to me to be a handful of sand; but at that moment the first rays of the sun reached the Wanderer’s decks, the pebbles and sand began to gleam dully, and I saw that I was looking at a pile of gold nuggets and gold dust.
“Two men to carry him below, cap’n,” came Dr. Olson’s voice from the other end of the settee. “He’s all right; in surprisingly good condition; but we’ve got to strip him and get dry clothes on him.”
Not one of us turned our heads. The others were fascinated by the gold, and I was fascinated by the expression on their faces. Each face bore the same expression; to a man they had dropped such masks of civilization as they possessed, and greed, pure, primitive greed, shone frankly from their strangely lighted eyes.
Life—raw and crawling! Brack’s words flashed through my mind. He was right, then. Raw and crawling! It was the first time I had viewed the souls of men, naked and unashamed of their nudity, and the vision was appalling.
“Schwartz—Dillon,” Captain Brack spoke over his shoulder. “To the doctor. Jump!”
The two men named withdrew reluctantly. I heard them marching behind, bearing the dripping man below, but I did not turn to look. My eyes were on Garvin. He was standing so that I had a fair view of his eyes and his unbandaged mouth, and I stared in fascination, as one is fascinated by something grewsome, which one has not believed possible.
I became conscious that somebody was watching me. It was Brack. He was smiling.
“Raw and crawling, Mr. Pitt,” he said, reading my thoughts like print. “You wouldn’t believe it when I told you; but there it is, all over Garvin’s face. Now what do you say?”