ll," I cut in, "that I haven't one pin, let alone two."

"You apparently don't understand that I'm perfectly serious."

"Yes, I do. I'm serious too. I'm quite satisfied that we haven't been
going about things in the right way. We've made mistakes, and it's up to
us to find out what those mistakes are and go over the ground again."

"I'll give it another week," said Cumshaw, "and if we haven't found
anything by then we might as well retire, for you can bet your sweet
life we never will."

I didn't answer him immediately. I was sprawling on the grass, on my
back, with my eyes turned to the west, and something in the color of the
sky surrounding the setting sun caught and held my attention. Curiously
enough it made me think of Gordon and "The Sick Stockrider"--it must
have been floating through my mind when I began to talk--and it needed
very little effort of imagination to see--

The deep blue skies wax dusky and the tall green trees grow dim,
And the sickly, smoky shadows through the sleepy sunlight swim,
And on the very sun's face weave their pall,

but there were no blue skies or green trees. The heavens were just a
dull slate-grey with streaks of smoke-colored cloud scurrying across
from the west, and the trees that might have been green in a better
light were black and gaunt, like weird spectres which had taken on wild
shapes and unorthodox hues. There was just the slightest suggestion of
chill in the atmosphere, and that, combined with the scurrying clouds,
made me study the sky with growing anxiety.

"If that's not a storm brewing," I said, pointing skywards, "I'm
anything you like to call me."

Cumshaw cocked one eye in the direction indicated. "It does look like
it," he said lazily, after a prolonged study of the sky.

I looked him up and down as best I could. One can't survey a man too
well when lying on one's back; but something in the glance and more that
I gave him, struck him as being so odd that he sat up and stared at me.
I made no movement.

"Well?" he queried at length.

"It's just the other way round," I said in my most aggravating tone.

He looked at the sky again at that, and then turned his dark eyes on me.
"I can see it's going to be a fine old storm," he said, "but I don't
understand why you're worrying about it."

"I'm not," I said a trifle untruthfully. I was worrying, but not as much
as he seemed to think. Ordinarily I would have told him just what I
fancied was wrong,