That day George worked alone. Robinson rode all over the country with a tin pan at his back, and tested all the places that seemed likely to his experienced eye. At night he returned to their tent. George was just lying down.
“No sleep to-night, George,” said he, instinctively lowering his voice to a whisper; “I have found surface gold ten miles to the southward.”
“Well, we will go to it to-morrow.”
“What, by daylight, watched as we are? We, the two lucky ones,” said Robinson bitterly. “No. Wait till the coast is clear—then strike tent and away.”
At midnight they stole out of the camp. By peep of day they were in a little dell with a brook running at the bottom of it.
“Now, George, listen to me. Here is ten thousand pounds if we could keep this gully and the creek a fortnight to ourselves.”
“Oh, Tom! and we will. Nobody will find us here, it is like a box.”
Robinson smiled sadly. The men drove their spades in close to the little hole which Robinson had made prospecting yesterday, and the very first cradleful yielded an ounce of gold-dust extremely small and pure. They found it diffused with wonderful regularity within a few inches of the surface. Here for the first time George saw gold-dust so plentiful as to be visible. When a spadeful of the clay was turned up it glittered all over. When they tore up the grass, which was green as an emerald, specks of bright gold came up clinging to the roots. They fell like spaded tigers on the prey.
“What are you doing, George?”
“Going to light a fire for dinner. We must eat, I suppose, though I do grudge the time.”