“That one chap may be—but not Jim Nestor,” declared Jerry, with a positive shake of his head. “Jim knows what he is doing, and I guess his partner does, too.”
“But what are they doing?” asked the man. “Have they lost something?”
“I don’t know,” answered Jerry. “But I’ll soon find out. I’ll ask Jim——”
He was interrupted by a shout from the man designated as Harvey Brill. He dropped his stick, caught up a piece of rock, and cried:
“I knew it! You can’t fool me, Jim, when I see pay dirt! I got a glimpse of it as soon as we hopped off the steam cars. My eyes are good for something yet. Look there!”
“That’s right. There’s the yellow stuff as sure as you’re born!” agreed Jim Nestor, as he critically examined the piece of rock his friend held out to him. “But how in the world do you reckon it ever got here—on the railroad track?”
“Give it up, but it’s here all right. Now we’ll have to get picks and shovels, a pan, a cradle maybe, and wash out some of the gravel, and——”
“Say, do you fellows want to be killed?” yelled Mr. Hitter, the freight, station and ticket agent, as he pushed through the crowd and confronted the two men. “Do you want to be run over?”
“Well, we ain’t just hankering after it, stranger,” said Jim Nestor, slowly. “Were you calculating on having us treated that way?”