Schomberg moved
slightly in his chair. But the admirer and partner of "plain Mr. Jones"
seemed to have forgotten Schomberg's existence for the moment. The
stream of ingenuous blasphemy--some of it in bad Spanish--had run dry,
and Martin Ricardo, connoisseur in gentlemen, sat dumb with a stony gaze
as if still marvelling inwardly at the amazing elections, conjunctions,
and associations of events which influence man's pilgrimage on this
earth.
At last Schomberg spoke tentatively:
"And so the--the gentleman, up there, talked you over into leaving a
good berth?"
Ricardo started.
"Talked me over! Didn't need to talk me over. Just beckoned to me, and
that was enough. By that time we were in the Gulf of Mexico. One night
we were lying at anchor, close to a dry sandbank--to this day I am not
sure where it was--off the Colombian coast or thereabouts. We were
to start digging the next morning, and all hands had turned in early,
expecting a hard day with the shovels. Up he comes, and in his quiet,
tired way of speaking--you can tell a gentleman by that as much as by
anything else almost--up he comes behind me and says, just like that
into my ear, in a manner: 'Well, what do you think of our treasure hunt
now?'
"I didn't even turn my head; 'xactly as I stood, I remained, and I spoke
no louder than himself:
"'If you want to know, sir, it's nothing but just damned tom-foolery.
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