He waded ashore again, and then “hefted” it, turned it over and over, tossed it in the air, caught it, smelled of it, put his tongue to it and was delighted.
Why should he not be delighted? Was not this what had brought him to this region? Was it not worth more than many days’ labor of trapping?
“That’s the fust crop!” he exclaimed, as he carefully put it away about his person; “and it follers that thar must be more of the same sort ’bout hyar.”
The day was quite cool, and he was pretty wet; but he felt it not. His feelings were excited, and he was tenfold more anxious for the precious metal than he had ever been before. It seemed as if there was an all-controlling appetite that had hitherto been latent, that was now aroused to action, and that overcame every other emotion.
He thought nothing now of personal danger. Gold, gold, was his thirst, and it led him on his eager search.
The trapper walked along the edge of the stream, totally oblivious to every thing but the one thing that just then occupied his thoughts, to the exclusion of every thing else.
Several minutes passed thus, when he was aroused from this condition by a sharp voice, calling almost in his very ears:
“Hello there!” Starting back, Tom looked up and saw Fred Hammond standing a few feet in front of him.
“What’s the matter?” asked the hunter.
“You must get out of here, without a moment’s delay.”