Now the fact is that this heap of quartz stones was in reality much larger than they thought, only the greater part of it had been overgrown with moss and patches of grass a few centuries of centuries ago.
Jacky, seated on what seemed a grassy mound, was in reality perched upon a part of the antique heap; his keen eye saw a little bit of yellow protruding through the moss, and he was amusing himself clipping it with his tomahawk, cutting away the moss and chipping the stone, which made the latter glitter more and yellower.
“Hallo!” cried George, “this looks better.”
Robinson went on his knees without a word.
“It is all right,” said he, in a great flutter, “it is a nugget—and a good-sized one—a pound weight, I think. Now then, my lad, out you come;” and he dug his fingers under it to jerk it out.
But the next moment he gave a screech and looked up amazed.
“Why, this is the point of the nugget; it lies the other way, not flat. George! I can't move it! The pick! Oh, Lord! oh, Lord! The pick! the pick!”
“Stand clear,” shouted George, and he drove the point of the pick down close by the prize, then he pressed on the handle. “Why, Tom, it is jammed somehow.”
“No, it is not jammed—it is its own weight. Why, George!”
“Then, Tom! it is a hundred-weight if it is an ounce!”