Gold In The Solomons

OLD in the Solomons! Of course there is. G-g-gold . . . plenty.”

The words gurgled drunkenly in his throat. “Haven’t we seen it, me and Hall, up in the hills near . . . Ugh!”

The exact site of that gold mine re mained unspoken. Even when a man is doped, some mysterious guardian keeps watch over his inmost thoughts. “The Solomons” had been waiting to hear that unspoken word for many years, but the opportunity passed.

“G-g-gold! It’s there, all right!”

His babbling ceased; he slept.

Over the hospital locker, a newly scheduled card told the world at large that Christopher Ackroyd, prospector, aged 32, admitted that very morning with an inflamed foot, occupied the bed. He had, in fact, been operated upon an hour earlier. The ward was very quiet now, save for the sounds that came from out side, the drone of the sea upon the reef and the thrashing of a palm against the wall. The bed opposite was occupied by an old man huddled under the quilt; all the others were empty.

As if to mark his contempt for the silence, the patient Ackroyd suddenly be gan to snore loudly.

His dreams followed the theme of his half unconscious talk . . . Gold, gold, gold . . . While other men had been searching the archipelago for years, Hall and he had been lucky enough to strike it almost at once, high up on the enormous bulk of Domingo, the big island that lies to windward of the group. Hall, the Australian, was a clever prospector; and Ackroyd, with his sound North Country sense, made an able second. Day after

day, up there in the high jungle, w'here an occasional break in the foliage ahead showed them, for below, the sea curving to an upended horizon, they had worked with 'feverish haste.

After the first breathless discovery of a lead, they had followed the vein of pre cious metal till the reef was gradually laid bare. Day after day, they had added to their haul in the little canvas bags which in their optimism they had brought with them from Laguti. That optimism had not been misplaced.

One day, heralded by an unusual burst of profanity, Ackroyd told all and sundry that he had stubbed his toe, and it soon became so painful and swollen that Hall insisted upon his returning to Laguti to see the doctor. With his boy’s help he had managed to get down the hill some how, hired a canoe, and reached the settlement, taking with him their first bag of specimens. The prospector had first confided his secret to Fillis, the banker; and, after seeing the gold locked up in the office safe, had limped up to the doctor’s house and shown him his foot.

A twinge of pain made him wake up to find a nurse looking down at him.

“How do you feel, Mr. Ackroyd.”

“Tip-top,” he answered.

“Any pain?”

“NO--00, nothing to speak of. What an awful smell in here.”

The girl laughed. “It’s the ether, that’s all.”

“Foof! What did he do at the opera tion?”

“Only took your nail off; you’ll soon be better.”

The patient, rubbing a turned-up nose, raised his blue eyes to the nurse, and his rather square tanned face broke into k smile.

“Did I say anything when I was going under?”

“Swearing, do you mean? Oh, no, you were very good.”

“I’m a bit noisy sometimes; I thought I might have disturbed the other patients.”

“There’s only old Charley in that bed over there. He wouldn’t take any notice.”

“Is that the old fellow who’s always hanging round the beach?”

“That’s him, and a regular old nuisance he is when he’s in here —won’t do any thing he’s told. Most of the people in Laguti think he is half-witted —mad about gold.”

“What’s he got to say about it?” asked Ackroyd, naively.

“Oh, he reckons he’s found a gold mine somewhere in the group, and he pesters everyone he meets to buy it.”

“Where does he say he’s found it?”

Ackroyd was becoming interested.

“He doesn’t know, really, and I don’t believe any one else does either. What do you think, Mr. Ackroyd? Is there any gold in the Solomons? They’re always hunting for it.”

But his only answer was a snore. The ether-sodden man had fallen asleep again.

Gold, gold, gold! In his dreams, he saw Hall standing knee-deep in the mountain stream, yelling to him to look at the clean-up . . . Then came the vision of that never-ending journey to Laguti, the slippery hillside track, the vines that caught and tore his hands, and his foot throbbing like the devil , . . The canoe on its way to town, motionless under the peaks of Bougainville, its mat sail hang

ing limp and still . . . The burning heat, the glare of the sea. . . , Outside the trade wind was freshening up, and a clock in the corridor struck eleven. It was just the hour that Fillis, in his private room, was examining Ack royd’s specimens under a glass for the twentieth time, and saying to himself that there would be no more talk about shutting up that branch. “This fellow’s saved the Solomons,” was his unspoken verdict.

Gold, gold, gold! . . . The ether mask, and the face of that fresh young nurse gazing down at him with her serious eyes . . . all woven together in the woof of his dream.

Twelve o’clock.

Low voices coming from behind the screen round Charley’s bed brought him to his waking self. He remembered Char ley quite well. The very day Hall and he had landed at Laguti from Sydney, the old man had come up to them on the waterfront, winking and looking wise, in a senile way, trying to spin some yarn on them about his gold mine. He and Hall had laughed at his tale, and they laughed at it again later on when they found it themselves. Charley, in the hos pital, appeared about as futile as Charley on the beach.

“Now, Charley, you must be good. Keep still!”

The ether surged back into his lungs again, and a sudden blankness descended on him. . . . Then once more he was wide awake, really awake this time—he pinched himself to make sure.

A gust of wind blew the screen curtains across the frame, exposing the bed and its occupant to Ackroyd’s view. The old man was struggling feebly with a cross looking nurse—not his nurse, of course— and a man with his back towards him was sitting on the bed.

“That’s the doctor,” said Ackroyd to himself. “What’s he there for, I wonder?”

He didn’t like that doctor chap; a young fellow with sharp features and black hair, very black —“Sure sign of a villain, that.” He passed his hand over his own fair, curly head. . . . “Don’t like the feller; up to some dirty trick now all right.”

“Tell us about the gold, Charley.” At this remark, Ackroyd’s interest deepened.

“Yes, tell the doctor,” came in a per suasive tone from the nurse.

“I won’t.”

“You won’t get better if you don’t do what the doctor wants you to, Charley.”

“You mean he won’t get out alive,” added the doctor, grimly.

Ackroyd began to get alarmed at the turn the conversation was taking. A duet of bass and contralto snapped across the bed in a running fire of questions, while the old man in tremulous tones defied his tormentors.

“Is the gold on Malaita?” the bass in toned.

“Is it on Bougainville?” echoed the alto.

“It’s on neither. Leave me alone, I tell you!”

The breeze played with the curtains, and finally let them fall in place again, so that the prospector could see no more.

But what he had heard was sufficient.

These two were out to discover the secret of Charley’s gold mine—by now, Ackroyd was ready to believe it really existed —and he gathered that certain papers which were under the old man’s pillow would supply the clue. But Charley appeared to be defending his property: the sound of a scuffle, followed by a stifled shriek, reached him as he lay in bed.

“About time I went over,” thought the young man, and he tried to move his legs, but failed. An attempt to call out was equally unsuccessful. He could do noth ing to assist. As he lay there, amazed at his helplessness, the curtains suddenly

.•swung aside again. What he saw across the ward made Ackroyd’s eyes grow wide with terror.

They had overpowered the old man. He watched the doctor seize his victim by the throat with one hand and stretch it out in a line of grisly flesh, while with the other he produced a razor from under the bed and swept it across the tautened tissues in a long gaping cut. God! The blood . . . the sheets were dripping with it, the floor under the bed flooded in a ■crimson stream.

And then the curtain fell again, shut ting off his view, and leaving him staring at its snowy surface.

He heard the rustle of papers, and an exclamation from the nurse.

“You don’t mean to say he’s sold it?”

“Yes, I do. To Hall and Ackroyd. It’s here in black and white.”

“Ackroyd knows all about it, then?” she whispered.

“Of course, he does; he’ll be the next.”

“Sssh! He’ll hear you!”

“Not he —he’s not out of the anaesthetic yet.”

“We’ll never get it out of him; he’s too ■close.”

“Won’t we? This talks.” Ackroyd imagined him flashing the razor. “If he •doesn’t, there’ll be another death under an anaesthetic, that’s all.”

A significant silence followed, during which Ackroyd made another attempt to move his limbs, without success. It was his own safety that he was concerned about now. . . . Another death under an anaesthetic, and he, Chris Ackroyd, the victim. . . Anaesth ... tic ... tic .. . Gold, gold, gold!

He woke again in a cold sweat, gazed blankly at the screen across the ward, now discreetly drawn, and remembered with a start of horror what lay behind it. He must get out of this at once. This time he succeeded in raising his legs from under the bedclothes, swept them free, and sat up.

There was no one about. Feverishly he fumbled in the locker beside the bed, drew out his clothes and struggled into them.

Carrying his suitcase, he lurched down the empty corridor.

It was the lunch hour: a buzz of talk came from the nurses’ dining room, and a high-pitched voice was holding forth as one having authority. Just as he sneaked by, he heard his own nurse, the pretty probationer, break in in her clear young tones: “Oh, matron, he was sleep ing quite soundly a few minutes ago. I’ll go in as soon as I’ve finished lunch.”

“She doesn’t know what’s been going on in the ward, anyway,” though the ex patient. “I am sure she would have helped me get away.”

Whereat it appears that Chris Ackroyd may have been inoculated with some other dope than ether.

A moment later he was out of earshot, and steering an erratic course for the town.

Strong hands took charge of him at the hotel, and someone asked him why he was back so soon. As he was helped to his room, he heard a woman’s voice answer ing the telephone, “Yes, he’s here, doctor.

Quite all right, but a bit sleepy. I’ll put him to bed and watch him. Let you know if ...” he wondered vaguely whom she was talking about.

The last thing he was aware of was Mrs.

Baker smoothing his pillow and dropping eau-de-Cologne on his forehead. The relief at his escape from the hospital was wonderful . . . Gold, gold, gold . . .

The next morning, feeling very fit after a good breakfast, he went out and sat

down on the verandah. His head had cleared and the memory of Charley’s mur der came back, tinged with doubt. Still, it was too real as yet to be entirely dis regarded. He longed to ask if anyone had heard of it, but his native caution held him back. While he was pondering over it. he suddenly turned in his chair; the doctor chap was looking down at him.

“Good morning, young fellow,” was the medico’s greeting.

Ackroyd, greatly embarrassed, mumbled something in reply.

“Feeling all right to-day?”

“Yes, thanks.”

“What happened to you yesterday?”

Ackroyd looked down unhappily at his boots.

“Got windy, did you?” went on the doc tor.

Ackroyd looked up at last and thtur eyes met. The doctor’s hair was certainly very black, but his face was smiling, and he did not look like a murderer. He decided to be frank.

“Well, doc., I did get windy. It must have been a bad dream I had, I think.”

“What about?” inquired the other with interest.

“That old man in there. 1...er . . .

thought ...”

“That’s the trouble, you shouldn’t try to think after an anaesthetic —but go on.”

“I thought I saw you and the nurse . . . er . . Oh, it was only a dream, but very real to me, then ... I thought you’d cut his throat.”

“Cut his throat! This grows interest ing. What did you see me do, exactly?”

“I saw his neck all stretched out and you brought out your razor and ... I must have been dreaming.”

“Dreaming!” The doctor began to laugh. “What you saw in your dream was the ward sister and I giving him his weekly shave. The old wretch wouldn’t let her do it, and I had to help her. So you thought your turn was coming next, and cleared out before you had your own cut, eh? Great Scott, that’s a good one!”

Ackroyd was laughing with him now.

“What’ll Ido about it, doc.? Shout cham pagne?” .

“Yes, I guess it’s worth it. But wait till I’ve fixed your toe up. And that reminds me, your little friend, Nurse Foster, told me to bring you back dead or alive. She hasn’t finished nursing you yet, she says.

I’m going to drive down presently; are you coming?”

At which message, Christopher Ackroyd blushed for the first time in this story.

G. H. Vernon.

„ „ , . , , „ - „ Mr. A. S. Burton, Islands trayellei foi Messrs. Tooth and Co. Ltd., returned to t a o iia -ew Sia nian tr produ™f, S hTsaW, 5 ' beer imported into Noumea was subject to a duty Of 8 - per dozen bottled; the Dutch Japanese, and Indo-China articles paid only 1/9, he added.