Then the grotesque figure in the corner stirred.

“Well, mates,” said the man, “believe or not believe, it’s in the book, and it stands to reason, too.  We have gold mines here in Californy and Nevada and all them States; and we hear of gold mines in Mexico and Australia, too, but did you ever hear tell of gold mines in Europe?  Tell me that!  And where did the gold come from then, before they discovered America?  Tell me that!  Why they made it, just as the man that wrote this-here says, and you can kiss the Book on that.”

“How about that place, Ophir, I read about?” asked a voice from the bunks.

The man shot a keen glance thither from beneath his brows.

“Know last year’s output from the mines of Ophir, Thrackles?” he inquired in silky tones.

“Why, no,” stammered the man addressed as Thrackles.

“Well I do,” pursued the man with the steel hook, “and it’s just the whole of nothing, and you can kiss the Book on that too!  There ain’t any gold output, because there ain’t any mines, and there never have been.  They made their gold.”

He tossed aside a book he had been holding in his left hand.  I recognised the fat little paper duodecimo with amusement, and some wonder.  The only other copy I had ever laid my eyes on is in the Astor Library.  It is somewhat of a rarity, called The Secret of Alchemy, or the Grand Doctrine of Transmutation Fully Explained, and was written by a Dr. Edward Duvall,—­a most extraordinary volume to have fallen into the hands of seamen.

I stepped forward, greeting and being greeted.  Besides the man I have mentioned they were four.  The cook was a bullet-headed squat negro with a broken nose.  I believe he had a name,—­Robinson, or something of that sort.  He was to all of us, simply the Nigger.  Unlike most of his race, he was gloomy and taciturn.

Of the other two, a little white-faced, thin-chested youth named Pulz, and a villainous-looking Mexican called Perdosa, I shall have more to say later.

My arrival broke the talk on alchemy.  It resumed its course in the direction of our voyage.  Each discovered that the others knew nothing; and each blundered against the astounding fact of double wages.

“All I know is the pay’s good; and that’s enough,” concluded Thrackles, from a bunk.

“The pay’s too good,” growled Handy Solomon.

“This ain’t no job to go look at the ’clipse of the moon, or the devil’s a preacher!”

“W’at you maik heem, den?” queried Perdosa.

“It’s treasure, of course,” said Handy Solomon shortly.

“He, he, he!” laughed the negro, without mirth.

“What’s the matter with you, Doctor?” demanded Thrackles.

“Treasure!” repeated the Nigger.  “You see dat box he done carry so cairful?  You see dat?”

A pause ensued.  Somebody scratched a match and lit a pipe.

“No, I don’t see that!” broke out Thrackles finally, with some impatience.  “I sabe how a man goes after treasure with a box; but why should he take treasure away in a box?  What do you think, Bucko?” he suddenly appealed to me.