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Updated: May 10, 2025
"My God, mate, what is it?" he cried, as he pinned the sufferer to the deck. But Pulz could not answer. He shivered, stiffened, and lay rigid, his eyes rolled back. "Fits," remarked Thrackles impatiently. The excitement died. Rum was forced between the victim's lips. After a little he recovered, but could tell us nothing of his seizure.
"Come, now, it can't be as bad as all that," I tried to cheer them. "It can't be more than a week or ten days' job, even if we careen her." "You don't know what you're talking about," said Thrackles. "It's worse than the yellow jack. It's six weeks at least. Mind when we last 'cleaned her'?" he inquired of Handy Solomon. "Down by the line in that little swab of a sand island.
The dust this time puffed below. "Thought she'd carry up at that distance," he muttered. The Nigger, too, missed, and Thrackles grinned triumphantly. "I get a show," said he. He spread his massive legs apart, drew a deep breath, and raised his weapon.
This was indeed well possible, so we gripped our clubs and ventured into the darkness. We advanced four abreast, for the cave was wide enough for that. As we penetrated, the bellowing and barking became more deafening. It was impossible to see anything, although we felt an indistinguishable tumbling mass receding before our footsteps. Thrackles swore violently as he stumbled over a laggard.
I soon discovered by way of comfort that only Thrackles and Handy Solomon really understood firearms; and of those two Thrackles alone had had much experience at long range. He told me afterward he had hunted otter. About halfway up the cliff Thrackles fired his fifth shot. No dust followed the discharge; and I saw Percy Darrow stagger and almost lose his hold.
One day on a walk in the hills I came on Thrackles and Pulz lying on their stomachs gazing down fixedly at Dr. Schermerhorn's camp. This was nothing extraordinary, but they started guiltily to their feet when they saw me, and made off, growling under their breaths. All this that I have told you so briefly, took time. It was the eating through of men's spirits by that worst of corrosives, idleness.
Blow high, blow low! What care we! 'But I am a jolly pirate and I'm sailing for my fee, Down on the coast of the high Barbare-e-e." he sang. "We'll land in Valparaiso and we'll go every man his way; and we'll sink the old Laughing Lass so deep the mermaids can't find her." Thrackles piled on more wood and the fire leaped high. "Let's get after 'em, said he.
For some unknown reason all my old apprehensions, my sense of impending disaster, had returned to me strengthened. In the firelight the Nigger's sullen face looked sinister, Pulz's nervous white countenance looked vicious. Thrackles' heavy, bulldog expression was threatening, Perdosa's Mexican cast fit for knife work in the back.
"We can surf the boat," yelled Thrackles, "but we can't land a load." That was my opinion. We rowed slowly along, parallel to the shore, and just outside the line of breakers. I don't know exactly how to tell you the manner in which we became aware of the cove. It was as nearly the instantaneous as can be imagined.
And where did the gold come from then, before they discovered America? Tell me that! "How about that place, Ophir, I read about?" asked a voice from the bunks. The man shot a keen glance thither from beneath his brows. "Know last year's output from the mines of Ophir, Thrackles?" he inquired in silky tones. "Why, no," stammered the man addressed as Thrackles.
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