d for? Gosh!"

Profiting by early lessons, Barry warned his men to keep a sharp
lookout. He divided them into two watches, bidding them to cook some
food for all hands against his return, and giving permission for them to
rest or sleep if they wished to, so long as half of them remained awake.
Then followed by Little in abashed silence, he went up to the huts and
announced his mission.

"Gol' dust, sar? No catchum here," was the response in a chorus.

"No catchum, hey? Very quick I make catchum," retorted Barry grimly. The
little brown men stared at each other and then at the white men, some
grinning openly, others shifting uneasily under the skipper's scrutiny.

"This is Cornelius Houten's gold camp, ain't it?" put in Little,
addressing a man who seemed to be pushed forward by his fellows.

"Ho yis, sar, dis Misser Houten's camp," the man replied, "but he no got
gol' dust here. I don' know what Misser Gordon send us here for, sar,"
he concluded, with a grin of enlightenment.

"Don't know, hey?" burst out Barry, shoving the man aside and entering
the biggest of the huts. "Keep your eye on these chaps, Little," he
cried. "If they budge a finger don't wait. Shoot."

There was no shooting. Barry found himself in a squalid interior,
containing all the discomforts of native bachelordom with no
compensating comforts. Remnants of food and dilapidated sleeping mats
strewed the dirty floor. But the thing that sent the skipper outside on
the run was the sight of a heap of gold-washing implements piled in a
corner and bearing no evidence of more than very casual usage. Anything
approaching the appearance of an active gold camp escaped his eye, and
his eye was unwontedly keen.

"Little, bring up half the boat crew!" he ordered, rejoining his friend
outside. "Have 'em bring their guns quickly. And bring all the small
rope there is. There's some queer business here."

The skipper drew out his own pistol, huddled the wondering natives into
a bunch, and kept them under his muzzle. When his sailors arrived, he
lined out every man clear of the huts, compared their number with the
figure on Little's list brought from the post, and then pulled out the
spokesman by the ear, holding his pistol to the man's head. The boat
crew held their rifles threateningly.

"What's up, Barry?" demanded Little, in a mental fog.

"Shut up!" snorted the skipper and turned to his captive. Giving the
man's ear a twist, he demanded:

"What's your g