“They'll be thravelin',” said Larry, “same as they do over the banks be Acklin Island. Come on and get the stuff in and don't be mindin' thim.”
In went another pig and they were raising the third when Sheila with a little catch in her voice said: “They are coming!”
They were. Upflowing like a tide just as they had done the night before, moving like a carpet being drawn across the sands, without haste yet unceasingly, clicking and rustling, advancing toward the working party but not at them. That, to Sheila, was the heart-catching part of the business. There was something blind and elemental in this moving host; there was no convergence toward the human beings; the far line was moving forward straight ahead like the rest and all seemed under the dominion, not of hunger or enmity or any passion known to man or beast—but of clockwork.
I'll be attindin' to thim in a minit,” said Larry, and in went the third pig, then the fourth and fifth. “Wan more,” said Larry, and in went the sixth.
Then, spade in hand, and calling Dicky to help, he began to attend to the unholy host that was now scarce three yards away.
“They're changin' their feedin' ground from the lift to the right of the bank,” said Larry as he began smashing into them with the flat of the spade. “Hit 'em with the flat, sor, same's I'm doin', That'll l'arn you, you bastes, to keep clear of your bethers, that'll tache you manners—bad cess to you!”
He kept on till a mound of dead crabs three yards long formed a barrier to the pit, then the burial of the gold resumed while the last of the host—after having devoured the remains of their dead comrades—passed over the eastern beach and into the sea.
James felt sick. His lively imagination had been stirred. He saw himself alone on this place with no spade to defend himself with, alone, and naked for choice, and surrounded by that passionless, terrible host. Sheila felt almost as bad; it seemed to her as though something evil in the gold had drawn that monstrous horde from the sea. Then, when the last of the pigs was in and the last shovelful of sand on top of the pile, she turned toward the boat with a feeling of relief.
The moon had long set and the stars ruled the night as they rowed toward the Baltrum, dog-tired now, yet feeling a relief at having got rid at last and for a moment of the weight they had been carrying so long.
CHAPTER XXIX.
JAMES GOES AWAY.
NEXT morning, and before the sun was up, they hoisted the sail, took up the anchor and started north to rejoin the Dulcinea.
Though refreshed by sleep and though half their work was now accomplished, they showed no exuberance of spirit.
Up to this the gold had always been in front of them, not in the form of gold but in the form of Fortune and everything that gold can buy. Now in their minds, as in reality, it lay behind them, a dead weight of metal, a burden they would have to return and pick up again.
Everything unpleasant that they had experienced since leaving Hildersditch was associated with it and the crabs had finished the business, at least in the minds of Sheila and James.
Things had come to a head with James this morning. Sincerely and earnestly he wished that he had never come along on this job. He who had everything that the world could offer had left everything—for what? For cramped quarters, barely passable food, hard work and uneasy mind; Forsythe's words about the illegality of the business; the Bompard incident; the feeling that a gang of international crooks were somewhere in the dark background of things, and dread of the British government, all conspired to make the uneasy mind. He had bought the wrong stock; he wanted to sell out and he didn't know how.
How could he leave the expedition? How could he leave the others?
He could not tell. He only knew that wild horses would not drag him back to that infernal cay to take up that appalling burden again.
Had he really loved Sheila things would have been different, but, alas, James' capacity for love was not equal to his capacity for enjoyment. Discomfort and anxiety had extracted the arrow of Cupid—or maybe mortification had produced anæsthesia. Anyhow he no longer felt it.
About seven bells—half past eleven—the wind shivered in the mainsail, died, and the Baltrum lay becalmed, adrift on a dark-violet sea.
