‘Take that dorg away, Jim, or I’ll put the pick into yer! There, you
got it now, ole man! Ah, would yer?’
Then the flickering light in the eyes failed altogether, and, I take
it, a very defiant, murderous old soul went forth to meet its Maker.
_Kálee_, smelling at the body, sat upon her haunches and wailed loudly
and dismally after the manner of her kind, answered from the flat by
Eclipse, marvelling at the disturbance of his friend, with sonorous
bellowings.
This was the requiem of him as he passed to join the other shades of
Yamnibar. Slain by a dog and the cunning of his own hand.
As for the gold that ‘Jim’ had lain by so quietly, and watched so
patiently through the years, we never got any of it.
The three nuggets figured in the police-court inquiry, with other
things, under the title of ‘Exhibit A.’
That was the last glimpse we had of them.
Departmental red tape enwrapped them so closely that no amount of
solicitation could render them visible again—to us.
Easier would it be to draw leviathan from the waters with a bit of
twine and a crooked pin than to draw ‘treasure trove’ from the coffers
of a treasury—colonial or otherwise.
To this day they are possibly accumulating dust, pigeon-holed with the
depositions in the case. But I doubt it, I doubt it.