Basil had time to note all this, for Old Corrie did not speak, and the young man was debating how to commence.
"Well, Master Basil," said Old Corrie, presently, throwing down his axe and taking out his pipe, a common short clay which he would not have exchanged for thrice its weight in gold, "what brings you this way? Any message from Mr. Bidaud?"
"No, Corrie," replied Basil sadly, "you will receive no more messages from him."
"I was thinking myself," said Corrie, glancing at Basil; and not immediately recognising the gravity of the reply, "that there mightn't be any more."
"What made you think that?" asked Basil, in doubt whether the man knew of Anthony Bidaud's death.
"I'm down with the fever, Master Basil."
"I am sorry to hear that, Corrie," said Basil in surprise, for Old Corrie was the picture of health and strength. "Can I do anything for you?"
"No, Master Basil," said Old Corrie, with a smile and a kindly look at Basil. "The fever I'm down with ain't the kind of fever that's in your mind. It's the gold fever I'm down with."
"Oh," said Basil, "I understand."
"The wonder is that I've never been down with it before. If I don't strike a rich claim or find a big nugget or two, I can always come back to this."