And in the midst, two clumsy heaps shaped like the backs of hogs, one
small, one great, sticking out under a rib of rock that cuts the space
across,--quap!
"There it is," said Gordon-Nasmyth, "worth three pounds an ounce, if
it's worth a penny; two great heaps of it, rotten stuff and soft, ready
to shovel and wheel, and you may get it by the ton!"
"How did it get there?"
"God knows! ... There it is--for the taking! In a country where you
mustn't trade. In a country where the company waits for good kind men
to find it riches and then take 'em away from 'em. There you have
it--derelict."
"Can't you do any sort of deal?"
"They're too damned stupid. You've got to go and take it. That's all."
"They might catch you."
"They might, of course. But they're not great at catching."
We went into the particulars of that difficulty. "They wouldn't catch
me, because I'd sink first. Give me a yacht," said Gordon-Nasmyth;
"that's all I need."
"But if you get caught," said my uncle.
I am inclined to think Gordon-Nasmyth imagined we would give him a
cheque for six thousand pounds on the strength of his talk.
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