“In years gone by the Spaniards worked these mines and drew from them a wealth that amazed the whole of Europe. But through revolutions and earthquakes many of the mines were abandoned and forgotten, and to this day some which are known to have been exceedingly valuable cannot be located.”
“I say, let us try to locate one of them!” cried Frank, enthusiastically.
“I don’t think you’ll have much luck,” responded the professor, dryly. “Many of the best of miners have tried and failed.”
Mark turned to Andy Hume, who sat close by, smoking a short briar-root pipe.
“Is that your game, Mr. Hume?” he asked.
“Andy Hume, please,” returned the old miner. “Never could get used to a handle to my name nohow.” He blew a cloud of smoke into the air. “Wall, about that being my game, it is and it isn’t. I’m going prospecting, and I don’t care if I strike something new or something old so long as it pans out good. I’ve heard tell of those old Spanish mines and of all the bloodshed it cost to get the gold out of ’em and out of the country. In those days a man wasn’t safe if he had over a hundred dollars’ worth of dust on his person. And even when he got out of the country he wasn’t certain but what some pirate would capture the ship he was sailing on and make him walk the plank to Davy Jones’ locker.”
“I wish we were going with you,” said Darry, impulsively.
“Thank you, lad, but the life wouldn’t suit you nohow. It’s not easy. Prospecting is dangerous work, and I’ve seen the time when I got lost in the mountains and didn’t have a bite to eat for forty-eight hours. That’s an experience that’s enough to drive one crazy.”
“I suppose it is. But if you strike it rich—”
“Ah, yes, if you do strike it. But you don’t more often than you do.”