Our two mates, Richard Handfield and Welsh Tom, had come upon the gold strata in the hole they had been sinking for the past three weeks. The gold-diggers on both sides of them were getting at the rate of an ounce of gold a-day per man, and they had every reason to justify them in the hope that they also were in possession of a golden claim. But when they reached the strata of earth in which the gold, from all surrounding indications, ought to have been imbedded, they were dismayed at finding only the merest speck of the metal here and there. And this morning they had washed a tubful of the soil which should have been auriferous, and were rewarded by not quite two grains of fine gold. It was at these two disappointing grains they were looking, very despondently, when they made the above remarks.
Throwing the tin dish containing the "prospect" to the ground in disgust, Richard asked, petulantly, "What is to be done now?"
"Look out for some fresh ground," answered the Welshman, applying himself to the gold-digger's consolation, a pipe.
"And work for three weeks more, and get nothing at the end of it!"
"Perhaps; and perhaps not." Welsh Tom said this laconically. He was more accustomed than Richard to such-like rebuffs, and was ready to go to work again with a very perfect faith.
"You take it coolly enough," Richard said, digging at the earth viciously with the heel of his boot.
"It's of no use growling," replied the Welshman, with a quiet shrug. "If it was, I'd growl."
Richard looked enviously at the party next to them, who had washed more than half-an-ounce of gold from a tin dishful of earth.
"Just see that," he said, jerking his head spitefully in the direction of the lucky gold digger.
Welsh Tom nodded. He saw nothing to envy in the other man's good fortune.