"Turn the affair upside down and lean it against the bank there. Some o' us could throw the sand on tae the thing and Kaiser could keep it goin' wi' enough water tae wash the sand awa.'"
"But the bamboo is too smooth. The gold would be carried over the edges with the sand."
"Pit a hale bamboo in atween every twa split yins, an' if the gold could rise ow'r that it wad be too licht for savin' ony way."
"All right, Mac," I responded. "You make the affair, and if it works we will appoint you our chief engineer."
Mac did not answer. He knew that all his appointments merely meant so much additional work left to him as a matter of course; and even as things were, he never had "ony time for meeditaishun." He made his corrugated inclined plane, however, and as all his comrades, excepting Kaiser, laughed at his idea, he worked it himself for the first day. That evening, as we sat in the smoke of our camp-fire, Doc remarked, "Well, boys, I made about an ounce to-day, but I can't say that I care much about the work."
"I reckon I is good for an ounce too," said Bill.
Sam was cook, Kaiser camp-guard, and I had been writing up my log, so we had nothing to say. Mac evidently—like an Australian bushman—believed that silence was golden, for it was only after being asked several times that he spoke. "Ah, weel," he said reflectively, "there's some folk in this weary world content tae work awa' frae morn till nicht for a paltry three pounds seventeen an' saxpence worth" (one ounce of gold), "but I'm no ane o' them."
"Mac is home-sick," Doc laughed.
"Has your patent turned out a duffer?" inquired Sam.