There was more; the stuff they had washed yielded twenty-three ounces, and the whole day's yield was worth four hundred pounds.
"Nothing to complain of now, Chaytor," observed Basil in the evening.
"Nothing." Basil was busy with paper and pencil. "What are you up to there? Figuring?"
"Yes," replied Basil. "I am reckoning how much four hundred pounds a day would bring us in at the end of the year. Here it is. Three hundred and twelve working days in the year, leaving Sundays free."
"Why should we do that?" asked Chaytor. "There's no one to see us. It would be a sheer waste of so much money."
Basil looked up in surprise; the remark was not agreeable to him, the tone in which it was spoken was still less so.
"I am old-fashioned perhaps," he said. "I do not choose to work on the Sabbath day."
"Growing particular."
"No; I have always held the same notion."
"We'll not argue. What is your reckoning?"