"Whar's yer swans?" asked Gus Jamison.
"And yer prismatic warter?" added Stumpy Jack.
"Well, I like this!" drawled Frenchwoman Pete. "What 'n thunder d' ye mean, you derned saddle-coloured fraud?"
I was a little nettled at all this, particularly as the lake seemed to have buried the hatchet for that day; but I thought I would "cheek it through."
"Just you wait!" I replied, significantly.
"O yes!" exclaimed Stumpy, derisively; "'course, boys, you mus' wait. 'Tain't no use a-hurryin' up the cattle; yer mustn't rush the buck. Jest wait till some feller comes along with a melted rainbow, and lays on the war-paint! and another feller fetches the swans' eggs, and sets on 'em, and hatches 'em out!—and me a-holding both bowers an' the ace!" he added, regretfully, thinking of the certainty he had left, to follow a delusive hope.
Then I pointed out to them a wide margin of wet and steaming clay surrounding the water on all sides, asking them if that wasn't worth coming to see.
"That!" exclaimed Gus. "I've seen the same thing a thousand million times! It's the reg'lar thing in Idaho. Clay soaks up the water and sweats it out."
To verify his theory he started away, down to the shore. I was concerned for Gus, but I did not dare call him back for fear of betraying my secret in some way. Besides, I knew he would not come; and he ought not to have been so sceptical, anyhow.
Just then two or three big bubbles rose to the surface, and silently exploded. Quick as lightning I dropped on my knees and raised my arms.