Through the dusk Charley trudged back to the fire, with his pan and his gold, feeling much indeed like a regular Forty-niner.
His father and Mr. Grigsby were sitting by the fire, talking, when in he burst upon them.
"I got some! I got some!" panted Charley.
"Did you? All right. Show up."
"It's in my sack. See?" And Charley "showed." "I didn't stay to pan much. But I learned how."
"A trace of gold, and considerable sand," pronounced Mr. Grigsby. "But that's enough, for a starter—only you want to dry that stuff out, lad, and blow the sand away. Understand?"
"We've decided to push right along, Charley," said his father, just as if he and Mr. Grigsby considered Charley as much of a partner as they were, "up the trail to Marshall's place; then we can turn north for the north branch of the American, or for the Yuba and the Feather beyond. They're all mining districts. Do you agree?"
"I agree," assented Charley. "And whenever we camp we can wash out gold, can't we?"
His father laughed.
"Certainly. By the time the mine is reached, may you'll have filled your sack."