“I guess the thing done itself,” he concluded, as he reloaded his piece, and scrutinized a moment or two longer.
As he moved away, he occasionally turned his head and glanced back, but saw nothing to renew his suspicions, and by the time he had passed a hundred yards down the valley, he had come to the opinion that there was but one eye that was surveying his movements—and that was the eye that looked upon him in kindness and mercy, as it does upon all mortals.
Still no signs of gold.
He was now following the course of the stream down the valley. In some places it brawled over stones, with a noise that shut out all other sounds, and then it flowed calmly and still, like the current of a deep river.
It was of crystal clearness, and there was no place where he could not distinguish the bottom, as easily as though it were “liquid air” floating at his feet.
“Wonder ef thar’s any use of my wadin’ in thar, turnin’ over them stones, and lookin’ under them—”
Suddenly he paused. What did he see?
He looked steadily a moment, and his heart gave a jump, as he plainly distinguished something yellow glistening in the center of the bed. The next instant he had plunged into the stream, which was about a foot in depth, and thrusting his arm down, brought it to the surface and held it up to view.
Yes; it was a solid lump of pure gold!
Black Tom was certain of it. It was about the size of a hen’s egg, very heavy, and bright and glistening. There could be no doubt of its nature.