“We may.”
“We may. It ain’t far.” Desmond was talkative. “This gold weighs heavy. I like the colour o’gold. Ohlsen, you got any children?”
“Ay, got two kids.”
“Wisht I had. Maybe I will, though—little boy ’n’ gal, with kind o’ gold hair. See here, you ever had a garden?”
“No.”
“I’ve me garden on me back here, hey? With them blue things that smell, and hens. You come and see me, Ohlsen, and you’ll have the best there is.”
“T’anks. Ay like fresh eggs.”
“So do I. And apples. Say, Ohlsen, I’m sorry this luck ain’t for you.”
Ohlsen did not answer or slacken his heavy, stooping stride against the wind. The curved hills opened slowly, swung aside. The spruce stood up, came nearer, and closed in around them like the outposts of a waiting army. The wind roared through the trees like a flood of which the surf was snow.
“Do you think we’ll do it?” shouted Desmond again and Ohlsen answered: