In a few seconds he had the table cleared away and the scales set up.On one side he placed the stamped disks to the equivalent of fifteen ounces, and balanced it with dust on the other.Replacing the weights with dust, he then had thirty ounces precisely balanced.These, in turn, he placed together on one side and again balanced with more dust.By this time the gold was exhausted, and he was sweating liberally.He trembled with ecstasy, ravished beyond measure.Nevertheless he dusted the sack thoroughly, to the last least grain, till the balance was overcome and one side of the scales sank to the table.Equilibrium, however, was restored by the addition of a pennyweight and five grains to the opposite side.He stood, head thrown back, transfixed.The sack was empty, but the potentiality of the scales had become immeasurable.Upon them he could weigh any amount, from the tiniest grain to pounds upon pounds.Mammon laid hot fingers on his heart.The sun swung on its westering way till it flashed through the open doorway, full upon the yellow-burdened scales.The precious heaps, like the golden breasts of a bronze Cleopatra, flung back the light in a mellow glow.Time and space were not.
"Gawd blime me! but you 'aye the makin' of several quid there, 'aven't you?"Jacob Kent wheeled about, at the same time reaching for his double-barrelled shot-gun, which stood handy.But when his eyes lit on the intruder's face, he staggered back dizzily.IT WAS THEFACE OF THE MAN WITH THE GASH!
The man looked at him curiously.
"Oh, that's all right," he said, waving his hand deprecatingly.
"You needn't think as I'll 'arm you or your blasted dust.
"You're a rum 'un, you are," he added reflectively, as he watched the sweat pouring from off Kent's face and the quavering of his knees.
"W'y don't you pipe up an' say somethin'?" he went on, as the other struggled for breath."Wot's gone wrong o' your gaff?
Anythink the matter?"
"W--w--where'd you get it?" Kent at last managed to articulate, raising a shaking forefinger to the ghastly scar which seamed the other's cheek.
"Shipmate stove me down with a marlin-spike from the main-royal.
An' now as you 'aye your figger'ead in trim, wot I want to know is, wot's it to you? That's wot I want to know--wot's it to you?
Gawd blime me! do it 'urt you? Ain't it smug enough for the likes o' you? That's wot I want to know!""No, no," Kent answered, sinking upon a stool with a sickly grin.
"I was just wondering."
"Did you ever see the like?" the other went on truculently.
"No."
"Ain't it a beute?"
"Yes." Kent nodded his head approvingly, intent on humoring this strange visitor, but wholly unprepared for the outburst which was to follow his effort to be agreeable.
"You blasted, bloomin', burgoo-eatin' son-of-a-sea-swab! Wot do you mean, a sayin' the most onsightly thing Gawd Almighty ever put on the face o' man is a beute? Wot do you mean, you--"And thereat this fiery son of the sea broke off into a string of Oriental profanity, mingling gods and devils, lineages and men, metaphors and monsters, with so savage a virility that Jacob Kent was paralyzed.He shrank back, his arms lifted as though to ward off physical violence.So utterly unnerved was he that the other paused in the mid-swing of a gorgeous peroration and burst into thunderous laughter.
"The sun's knocked the bottom out o' the trail," said the Man with the Gash, between departing paroxysms of mirth."An' I only 'ope as you'll appreciate the hoppertunity of consortin' with a man o'
my mug.Get steam up in that fire-box o' your'n.I'm goin' to unrig the dogs an' grub 'em.An' don't be shy o' the wood, my lad; there's plenty more where that come from, and it's you've got the time to sling an axe.An' tote up a bucket o' water while you're about it.Lively! or I'll run you down, so 'elp me!"Such a thing was unheard of.Jacob Kent was making the fire, chopping wood, packing water--doing menial tasks for a guest!
When Jim Cardegee left Dawson, it was with his head filled with the iniquities of this roadside Shylock; and all along the trail his numerous victims had added to the sum of his crimes.Now, Jim Cardegee, with the sailor's love for a sailor's joke, had determined, when he pulled into the cabin, to bring its inmate down a peg or so.That he had succeeded beyond expectation he could not help but remark, though he was in the dark as to the part the gash on his cheek had played in it.But while he could not understand, he saw the terror it created, and resolved to exploit it as remorselessly as would any modern trader a choice bit of merchandise.
"Strike me blind, but you're a 'ustler," he said admiringly, his head cocked to one side, as his host bustled about."You never 'ort to 'ave gone Klondiking.It's the keeper of a pub' you was laid out for.An' it's often as I 'ave 'eard the lads up an' down the river speak o' you, but I 'adn't no idea you was so jolly nice."Jacob Kent experienced a tremendous yearning to try his shotgun on him, but the fascination of the gash was too potent.This was the real Man with the Gash, the man who had so often robbed him in the spirit.This, then, was the embodied entity of the being whose astral form had been projected into his dreams, the man who had so frequently harbored designs against his hoard; hence--there could be no other conclusion--this Man with the Gash had now come in the flesh to dispossess him.And that gash! He could no more keep his eyes from it than stop the beating of his heart.Try as he would, they wandered back to that one point as inevitably as the needle to the pole.
