20

What’s Become Of Him?

IF IT HAD been earlier in the day somebody would have noticed at once that there was a gap in the line and that one of the prospectors was missing. But the day had been long and very hot, and by the end of the afternoon even Nancy was not as strict as she had been. Again and again the line had been broken when somebody had found something or other and all the others had come together to see what it was. It had never been anything worth looking at, from the mining point of view, and the prospectors had spread out again to go on with the combing of the Topps, feeling more and more disheartened. They had come to spreading out anyhow, in no particular order, so that each time people had different next-door neighbours. When Roger slipped into hiding he had been next to Nancy, but when Nancy next looked that way and called out to John it never occurred to either that there ought to have been someone else between the two of them. It was growing late, and they were back at the side of the Topps above the valley of the Amazon, and Nancy had at last agreed that they had done enough, when the discovery was made. They had come to the place where they had dumped their knapsacks after the midday meal. One by one they stiffly twisted their arms through the straps, ready for the short walk home along the edge of the moorland. The pile of knapsacks grew smaller, until of all the eight only one was left.

‘Hullo! Where’s Roger?’ said Titty.

‘Roger!’

‘Roger, ahoy!’

‘Come on. Don’t start lurking. We’re going home,’ said Peggy.

‘Grub!’ shouted John. ‘Hurry up!’

But no tousled head of Roger bobbed up from behind rock or heather or bracken. There was not a sign of him to be seen.

‘He’s just sloped,’ said John.

‘He’s a bit tired of prospecting,’ said Susan.

‘Poor old Rogie,’ said John, by way of apology to Nancy. ‘He’s always in a hurry, you know … getting out the oars the moment the wind drops.’

‘I know what he’s done,’ said Peggy. ‘I bet he’s gone scouting down to the bracken opposite Atkinson’s gate, to see Squashy come prancing home.’

All day there had been no sign of Squashy Hat on the Topps. Again and again the prospectors had looked up to the white painted patches on the rocks of Grey Screes, expecting to see their rival, and listening for the tapping of his hammer. Except for the creaking flight of a family of wild swans far overhead, and the occasional protests of startled grouse, they might have been the only living things in that deserted wilderness. This had been good from the prospecting point of view, but, as the prospecting had been unsuccessful and duller than usual because no longer new and, in spite of Nancy’s faith, becoming less and less hopeful, they had almost been sorry that Squashy Hat had not been there. Roger was not the only one who felt that a little scouting, Indianing and signalling would have been a happy change. No one felt much inclined to blame him.

They all hailed together, ‘Roger, Ahoy–oy–oy–oy!’

There was no answer.

‘He wouldn’t hear with the wood between us,’ said John.

‘Specially if he’s snuggling down in the lurking-place,’ said Peggy. ‘I’ll go and dig him out. …’

‘Come on, John,’ said Nancy. ‘Let’s go, too. He may have spotted Squashy up to something or other. Come on, Susan. Let’s all go.’

But they had been on their feet all that hot day, and Susan, though tired enough already, knew that they were again short of milk and that it was her turn to go down to the farm. John and the two Amazons ran on together, at a steady trot, along the edge of the Topps, close above the wood, disappearing when they dropped down to the Dundale road.

The main body of prospectors were just reaching the Great Wall, and were turning down the gully into the wood when they saw them coming back. … Nancy, John, Peggy. …

‘They haven’t got him,’ said Dorothea.

‘He’ll be coming along behind,’ said Susan, but just then they saw the three stop and heard ‘Roger, Ahoy!’ called out again into the summer evening.

Susan looked back over the rolling desert of the Topps.

‘Botheration,’ she said. ‘He ought not to start games right at the end of the day.’

They waited.

‘He’s not there,’ said John, ‘unless he’s simply being a goat.’

‘We went right down to Atkinson’s,’ said Peggy.

‘We had a look at Squashy,’ said Nancy. ‘He’s got back and we saw him light his pipe, sitting on the bench in the garden.’

‘But what about Roger?’ said Susan.

‘In the camp, probably.’

Titty, Dorothea and Dick raced off together, down the gully, past the bramble thicket, in among the bushes, past Titty’s well and into the camp.

‘Hey! Roger!’ called Titty.

‘He may be croodling to the pigeons,’ said Dorothea.

‘He isn’t,’ said Dick. ‘I went there first to see.’

‘He isn’t in his tent,’ said Titty.

‘I know what he’s done,’ said Dorothea, just as Susan and the others came into camp. ‘He’s run on down to get the milk from Mrs Tyson.’

‘He did say he was going to one day,’ said Titty.

‘Oh well, that’s all right,’ said Susan, relieved, and then, a moment later, ‘He hasn’t taken the milk-can.’

‘Just like Roger,’ said Nancy. ‘Mrs Tyson’ll lend him another.’

‘I’m going down to meet him,’ said Susan. ‘Look here, Peggy. You’ll get on with the supper. It’s awfully late already.’

‘Fried cannon balls,’ said Peggy. ‘There’ll still be time to do them if you’re going down after Roger.’

‘John, give her a hand with the mincing,’ said Susan, and, taking the milk-can, hurried off through the trees.

Fried cannon balls were an improved form of pemmican. John opened a tin of corned beef while Nancy was stirring up the fire to do its duty, and Peggy, with reverent fingers, was putting Susan’s mincing machine together. The corned beef, a couple of onions and some stale bread saved by thrifty cooks were put through the machine, and then mixed together in a pudding bowl with a raw egg and the little that was left of the morning’s milk. The mixture was rolled into balls, by Titty and Dorothea, who happened to have the cleanest hands. Butter was melted in the frying-pan, and then a skilful circular motion, close above the flames, gave the cannon balls a chance of being browned on all sides. This was very hot work, and the prospectors did it in short shifts, those who were resting anxiously watching the one in charge of the heavy frying-pan, because a slip, or twist of a weak wrist had been known to send all eight cannon balls together headlong into the fire.

The cannon balls were nearly ready when they heard Susan calling ‘Roger’ below them in the wood.

They looked at each other with horror.

‘But wherever can he be?’ said Nancy, almost angrily.

The next minute Susan panted into camp with the milk. She had come up the steep path out of the valley just about as fast as she could. They could see at once that she was very worried.

‘Mrs Tyson’s never seen him,’ she said. She almost choked on her words. ‘He must be still on the Topps … or anywhere. … He may have gone and twisted an ankle like he did last year. … He may have gone into one of the old workings. … Roger!’ she called out desperately. ‘Come along. Supper. Nobody’s cross with you!’

‘He may be stuck in a mine,’ said Dorothea, her eyes widening, ‘shouting and shouting and no one to answer.’ She was divided between pity for Roger and the awful thrill of the mess into which he might have got.

‘Starving,’ said Titty, with tears in her eyes, and for once nobody laughed at the thought of Roger’s hunger.

‘And it’ll be pitch dark in another few minutes,’ said Susan.

‘Come on, John,’ said Nancy, pulling herself together. ‘No time to lose. Nothing else for it. We’ve got to go up again and find him. Dick, Titty and Dorothea stay here in camp. We four’ll go and look for him. Better take lanterns. Where’s that Alpine rope? …’

And just then the pale red glimmer of a dying torch showed between the trees and Roger walked into camp.

Pity and fear for him were gone in a moment.

‘Miserable little idiot,’ said John.

‘Where have you been?’ said Susan.

‘Hullo,’ said Roger, seeing what was in the frying-pan that Peggy was holding. ‘Cannon balls. I’m jolly glad I wasn’t late.’

‘Shiver my timbers,’ said Nancy. ‘If you were a ship’s boy in my ship … or an able-seaman.’

He came slowly towards them, keeping one hand behind his back.

‘What have you done to your hand?’ said Susan.

‘Nothing,’ said Roger.

‘Why are you hiding it?’

‘Got something in it,’ said Roger.

He faced the whole indignant company and held out a large lump of white quartz.

‘Gold,’ he said simply. ‘Look at it and see.’

Nancy grabbed the stone.

‘The other side,’ said Roger.

‘Golly,’ said Nancy. ‘Hi! Look at this, John. Where’s Dick? Come on, Professor! Is it or isn’t it?’

Everybody was crowding round. Heads, shoulders, bumped together. Nancy gave the stone to John.

‘Come on, Dick,’ said John.

Dick pushed his spectacles straight. His hands shook a little as John pushed the lump of quartz into them.

Everybody had caught a glimpse now of the crack in the white sparkling stone, the brown earth in the crack, and in the earth, and on either side of it shining specks of yellow.

‘It must be,’ cried Dorothea.

‘Of course it is,’ said Titty.

‘It’s the right colour,’ said the Professor.

‘Hurrah!’ cried Peggy. ‘We’ve done it after all.’

‘Yes, but where’s the place,’ cried Nancy. ‘Come on. We’ll want these lanterns after all. We must stake our claim before Squashy finds it too.’

‘I couldn’t find the way there in the dark,’ said Roger, looking at the cannon balls.

Nancy’s face fell.

‘It’s all right,’ said John. ‘No moon. Squashy couldn’t find it either.’

‘They’ve got to have their suppers,’ said Susan.

‘Oh well,’ said Nancy regretfully. But even she could see that it was no good going stumbling about the Topps in the dark. She gave up the idea. ‘Squashy’ll be having his supper, too. … But not a celebration feast. Come on. Those cannon balls are cooked. Kettle’s boiling. Let’s get at it. Flowing bowls! … Oh, well done, Roger!’

Roger grinned, but looked a little doubtfully at Susan.

Two minutes later supper had begun. The night closed down and shut them in with their camp fire. They bit into their cannon balls and asked questions. Roger bit into his and answered, but did not tell too much.

‘But just where is it?’ Nancy asked.

Roger finished his mouthful before speaking, with a politeness that was almost maddening. He wanted time to think. He had found the place, and tomorrow he would show it them, but he wasn’t going to tell them exactly where it was and have them all dashing in ahead of him.

‘You turn to the right after a bit,’ he said, ‘and then there’s a clump of dead grass, and a bit to the left and then a bit straight and a bit to the right again, and then you go down a bit after going up, and you leave a patch of bracken on the port hand, and a brownish rock to starboard. …’

‘Oh shut up, Roger,’ said John. ‘Don’t play the donk.’

‘Well, she asked me,’ said Roger, and took another largish bite of cannon ball.

‘But is there a lot of it, or just this bit?’ said Susan.

‘Is it in an old working?’

‘Was there any heather?’

Roger, when he was again free to speak, told them that it was in just such an old working as Slater Bob had described, that the heather was there, and that there was lots more gold where the first lump came from.

Titty listened to him and watched him.

‘It’s all right,’ she said at last. ‘He really has found it. Good old Rogie.’

More than that he would not say, but it was enough. As the meal went on, and empty stomachs were filled, the realisation of what had happened sank deeper and deeper. Somewhere above them, out there in the blackness of the night … out there in the wilderness they had searched so long … the gold was waiting for them, after all. … And Roger, sitting there with his mouth full, had seen it and touched it and brought some away and knew the very place where it was. People kept getting up from the fire and sitting down again. The lump of quartz was passed from hand to hand. Dick, cramming in the last of his cannon ball, scrambled into his tent to get the metallurgy book. Dorothea, forgetting for once The Outlaw of the Broads, murmured to herself.

‘Walking up and down on deck,’ she murmured. ‘Up and down. … Up and down. …’

‘As glum as anything,’ said Titty. ‘If only we knew the name of his ship to send him a telegram … or, just think, if only a pigeon came flying to perch on the mast with the news. …’

Even John could hardly keep still.

Nancy went stamping round in the dark, spilling the tea out of her mug, and talking to herself. ‘Shiver my timbers! … Done it after all! … Barbecued billygoats! … Giminy! … Golly! … Forty million thousand pieces of eight!’

‘You’ll get your hair on fire if you don’t look out,’ said Susan. ‘Look out. … Dick!’

And Dick, who had not heard at first what she was saying, moved just an inch or two further from the flames still reading Phillips on gold by the flickering light of the camp fire, looking first at the page where the letters seemed to dance before his eyes, and then at those glittering specks on the white quartz.

‘Go to bed, everybody,’ cried Nancy suddenly. ‘Now. At once. We’ve got to get our claim staked the moment it’s light enough to see.’