Philip nodded, and presently Mr. Hart and William Smith were in the saddle, galloping away over the hills in the direction of the Margaret Reef; the horses did the distance in twenty-five minutes.
"Do you hear them--do you hear them?" cried William Smith exultantly, as they breasted the hill.
The music of the stampers fell on their ears. They halted at a distance of a couple of hundred yards from the machine. Sparks were flying from the chimneys; the fires were roaring; the machine was thumping away, beating the gold out of the quartz; dark forms of men were moving busily about in the shade and lurid light.
William Smith had good cause for triumph; many a man has won a name in history for doing less than he had done.
But in the midst of his exultation a tender sadness came upon him.
"What would you suppose I am thinking of?" he asked of Mr. Hart.
"I can't guess," replied Mr. Hart, who had thoughts of his own.
"I am thinking of my old mother at home," said William Smith, "and wishing she was here to see this day's doings. How proud she would be of her Billy, as she calls me!"
Mr. Hart was also thinking of a dear one at home and of the time, soon to come he hoped, when he should fold her in his arms. He blessed the music of the stampers; he gazed with tearful eyes upon the bright sparks flying upwards from the chimneys. They would give him the means of seeing his darling daughter in her bloom of womanhood, of sharing her life, of administering to her happiness.
At that moment, also, Philip was talking to Margaret of his father.