"Three hundred and twelve working days a year," continued Basil. "Twelve days for sickness, leaving three hundred. At four hundreds pound a day we get a total of a hundred and twenty thousand--in pounds. Sixty thousand pounds each. Truly, a great fortune."
"If it lasts," again said Chaytor.
"Of course, if it lasts. There's the chance of its getting better. How does it look to you--as if it will hold out?"
Chaytor had been down the claim for some hours during the day, and had pocketed between forty and fifty ounces, which he chose to regard as his own special treasure trove.
"There's no saying," he said. "The vein runs sideways into the rock. It may peg out at any moment."
"We shall not have done badly by the time it does. I have to thank you for bringing me here."
"Yes," said Chaytor, ungraciously; "it was my discovery. Don't forget that."
"I shall never forget it, Chaytor, nor any of the other good turns you have done me. I don't know whether it is a healthy or an unhealthy sign that this better luck should have aroused me from the apathy in which I have been so long plunged. It has softened me; the crust of indifference, of disbelief in human goodness, is melting away, I am glad to say. That this is due to the prospect of becoming rich is not very creditable; I would rather that the change in me had sprung from a less worldly cause; it would have made me better satisfied with myself. But we mortals are very much of the earth, earthy, and we take too readily the impressions of immediate circumstances and of our surroundings. They mould our characters, as it were, and change them for better or worse."
"You can do a lot of thinking in a little time, Basil."
"How so, Chaytor?"