They followed the noise of rushing water and came to chaotic banks of gravel and a wooden sluice-box that poured its muddy torrent into a brook. A little way beyond it was a tent, and several huts built of boards. What fascinated them was a heavy steel nozzle at the end of the iron pipe leading down the hillside. A solid stream of water leaped from the nozzle. One man easily guided and turned it as a gunner lays his piece on the mark.
The water was like a projectile. It bored into the looser soil of the hill where it had slid down to pile up at the base of the cliff. Gravel and broken rock were swept down to the sluice or flung aside.
“And to think we have got to break our backs with the old pick and shovel, or drilling holes for blasting charges,” lamented Charlie Burnham.
“But this bright scheme hasn’t found any treasure for him,” replied Cary.
They advanced toward the tent. A hammock was swung near it. In it reclined a man who smoked a cigar and read a book. He glanced up, was quickly on his feet, and walked to meet the visitors. Don Miguel O’Donnell was much nearer sixty than fifty years old, but physically he appeared to be in his prime. He was well-knit, vigorous, and taller than the average. His cheek was ruddy. At the corners of his eyes, however, the wrinkles spread in a network of fine lines. He looked more like an O’Donnell than a native of Ecuador.
It seemed odd to hear his courteous greeting in Spanish. Richard Cary fumbled a few phrases in response. Don Miguel apologized and his smile was engaging as he said in fluent English:
“I saw the Colombian flag on your steamer, my dear sir. But there is not a man in all Colombia like you. You are—”
“I am Captain Cary of the Valkyrie, and this is the chief engineer, Mr. Burnham.”
“An excursion for pleasure to Cocos Island?” observed Don Miguel, watching them closely. “You are interested in my mining operations? There is nothing to hide. I have been disappointed.”
“And you are going home soon, sir?”