"About nine ounces to the ton, I should say," replied William Smith. "We'll first crush fifty tons, and wash up and see what the yield is. Then we'll go straight on with two hundred tons, and get the biggest cake of gold that has ever been seen in Silver Creek and exhibit it in High Street. It'll do the diggings good."
"When shall we commence to crush?"
"We shall be ready in three days. All we want is water in the dam. Now is the time to pray for rain."
Philip went straight to Margaret, as one goes to one's high-priest.
"Pray for rain, my darling," he said, "pray for rain;" and told her the reason why.
Margaret prayed for rain, obediently, as she had been bidden, and prayed for it so hard that, whether you will believe it or not, such a downpour commenced on Silver Creek at ten o'clock that night as had never been witnessed by the oldest inhabitant--a veteran of two years or less. Silver Creek overflowed its banks, and the lower parts of the township were flooded. Philip was wild with joy.
"You duck!" he said to Margaret--he was in the theatre when the rain commenced--"this is all your doing!"
We sober-going persons know, of course, that it was only a coincidence. Margaret, however, smiled demurely. She was quite ready to take the credit of it; she would not have been a woman else. But it was rather a stretch on Philip's part.
William Smith looked anxious. He wanted rain, but he was a little bit afraid of such a downpour as this, thinking that the dam might not be strong enough to bear it. Philip ran to Margaret, and told her of William Smith's fears.
"The dam not strong enough!" she exclaimed. "O, but it is!"