The bearded man stooped to drink: the other dipped the billy into the water and drank, standing.
The little bird had perched himself on a big rock which stood above the surface of the swirling water.
“Good,” said he with the beard. “There’s no water like bush water.”
“There’s that little beggar again,” said the other, watching the bird upon the rock.
“He’s following us around. This shall be named Bush Robin Creek.”
“Bush Robin Creek it is,” said the other. “Now take a prospect, and see if you can get a colour.”
The older man turned over a few boulders, and exposed the sand that lay beneath them. Half a shovelful of this he placed in a tin dish, which he half-filled with water. Then squatting on his heels, he rotated the dish with a cunning movement, which splashed little laps of water over the side and carried off the lighter particles of sand and dirt. When all the water in the dish was thus disposed of, he added more and renewed the washing process, till but a tablespoonful of the heaviest particles of grit remained at the bottom. This residue he poked over with his forefinger, peering at it nearly.
Apparently he saw nothing. More water was put into the dish, and the washing process was continued till but a teaspoonful of grit remained.
“We’ve got the colour!” he exclaimed, after closely examining this residue.
His comrade knelt beside him, and looked at the “prospect.”