Читать книгу Golden Ballast - Henry De Vere Stacpoole - Страница 11

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“High grade—somewhere about twenty-two carat,” finished the assistant.

“Gold!” said Dicky.

It seemed to him that he had known from the very first the tremendous truth that the ballast of the Baltrum was gold.

When the assistant had picked up the little envelope and carefully placed the bit of metal in it, a knock had come to his heart; in that moment, he knew; the full announcement scarcely stirred him more. He placed the envelope in his pocket and stood for a minute talking to the other.

What he said he scarcely knew. He wanted to get out of the shop, he wanted to get out without creating suspicion or giving any clue to the tremendous secret that had suddenly become his, and so admirably does the mind adapt itself to emergencies that the man behind the counter noticed nothing very remarkable in his tone, manner or conversation.

Then Dicky found himself pushing the swing door open. The roar of the Strand hit him in the face and for the first time the reality stood before him dressed in the garb of the “Arabian Nights.”

The whole passing street—for the Strand is always passing—the newsboys, the cab drivers, clerks and typists, the rich and the ragged, all become part of this dream, come true.

“Gold, high grade, somewhere about twenty-two carat,” said the pulse of the traffic.

“Gold!” yelled the newsboys.

And there was not a soul in all that crowded street that knew what he knew; not a soul in the whole world but himself who knew that at Hildersditch, in the Pool, on board the ketch Baltrum, pigs and pigs of high-grade gold were lying hidden under the guise of ballast. He got into the taxi, and the man having already received his directions, started.

Dicky, lighting a cigarette and leaning back in his seat, gave himself up to thought.

What would Sheila say?

The thought opened the door to others less pleasant. This great and glorious discovery was not altogether a jam cupboard. The Baltrum had to be bought. The gold was not his yet, nor could it be his till the auction was over and the cash paid down. Suppose Houston were to outbid him, and there would be others besides Houston, and he—Dicky—had only four hundred pounds.

Would it be possible before the auction to take the ballast off and hide it on one of the sand spits and reballast with bags of sand? Turning this over in his mind he came to the conclusion that it would be impossible. There were too many eyes at Hildersditch. The only chance of making profit over this business lay in keeping the stuff on board the ketch and sailing with her to some place where the gold could be disposed of. To do this she had to be bought and to buy her he had to beat Houston, and who knows whom competing with him in open market and under the presidency of a pitiless auctioneer.

That was the fight that lay before Dicky, and old Roman gladiators have entered the Circus Maximus better prepared and to meet less trying possibilities.

At Liverpool Street, over a cup of tea in the tea rooms, he came to the determination to dismiss the future and enjoy the present. Luck had been with him up to this, and why should it not be with him till the end?

At Hildersditch station he found Larry waiting for him to carry the parcels to the boat. The salt-water smell of the place was good after the stuffiness of London, and as they rowed across the dark water of the Pool toward the riding light of the Baltrum Dicky found himself wondering how men with banking accounts and free wills ever submit themselves to the thraldom of the cities.

“I’d sooner break stones for a living down here,” said he to himself, “than live in London on ten thousand a year.” Then aloud, “Baltrum, ahoy!”

“Ahoy,” came a girl’s voice from the darkness.

“Aisy does it,” said Larry, drawing in his sculls and taking the boat hook. “Be ready wid the lather, Miss Shaila.”

They came gliding alongside, the boat hook rasped on the rail, the ladder came down and Dicky sprang on board.

“You haven’t forgotten the things?” asked Sheila’s voice.

“No, they are in the boat,” said he. “Hand the parcel up, Larry. I’ve forgotten nothing but to have my hair cut and go to the tailor’s and see old Forsythe, but I met a man and that delayed me.”

“Then come down to supper,” said Sheila.