“Nuggets,” said the goldsmith.
Jake dropped his “swag” and felt the weight of the bag.
“It gits over me,” he said. “Either you stole it, or you dug it. I give it up. Any’ow, there it is.”
Benjamin smiled his broadest, and began to rake together the charred sticks scattered over the floor.
“This is my only trouble,” he said. “To yank my firewood in here is heart-breaking; that and swagging tucker from town.”
“Where’s the smoke go to?” Jake looked into the inky blackness above.
“Don’t know. Never asked. I guess it finds its way somewhere, for after I’ve hung my blanket over the doorway and lighted the fire, I sometimes notice that the bats which live overhead buzz round and then clear out somewhere. I imagine that there’s a passage which connects with the open air. Some day, perhaps, an over-earnest policeman will drop on our heads. Then there’ll be a picnic, eh?”
“What I want, just at present,” said Jake, “is a drink.”
“That’s another of my troubles,” replied the goldsmith. “I have to fetch my water from outside, but it’s lovely water when you’ve got it.”
He placed his bag of gold in a corner. “Don’t put all your eggs into one basket,” he said. “I believe in Jacob’s plan—divide your belongings. If I’m caught here, I have the plant in town. If I’m caught in town, I have the plant here. Anyhow, the police can’t get everything.”