"That was what we saw lying here. Hold it in the dark, Jack—yes, that is it," muttered Wythe, as the bone again showed the flickering light.
"And there comes the rain—but first, I'm going to have the measure of this foot. I think I owe the rascal that made it a sound thrashing, and if we ever meet, he'll get it, or my name's not Jack Tyrrel!"
As the storm burst, the gold-hunters regained their shelter, and composed themselves as comfortably as circumstances would admit. Knowing that they were in for a drenching, they only cared to keep their weapons and ammunition dry.
It was impossible to sleep while the storm raged with such violence, and Jack continued his good work by lecturing his comrades. He showed them the point toward which they were drifting, and that ruin must follow unless they rallied against the spell that seemed falling upon them.
"Why, in less than a month—if this sort o' thing keeps on—we'll be ready to cut each other's throats. It is horrible! I'd rather turn my back on the gold altogether and live poor all my life than to pass another week as this one has been."
"I agree with you, Jack," warmly replied Duplin. "There is gold enough for us all. Let's clasp hands, and forget the hard work. Hereafter let's be men—not savage dogs."
"Amen!"
Through that livelong night the three, comrades once more, conversed earnestly. And when day came, they were ready for work.
It was plain now that their secret was no longer their secret—that they had been watched by some one who knew of their rich discovery. And it was likely that this watcher also knew of their "bank"—the spot where their treasure was stowed away.
Before daylight they removed the gold to another spot, the driving rain obliterating all traces as soon as made. This done, they looked to their weapons.