"They're over near Tarryall or Grab-all, in the South Park; only about fifty miles," answered Terry.
"And here's our dust, too," proffered George.
Sol opened the little sack and fingered the contents.
"Gold!" he snorted. "Yes, fool's gold. That's nothing but iron pyrites—'tisn't worth a cent a ton! Don't you know the difference between gold and iron pyrites yet? Thought you were miners."
"But it's from the German's diggin's," stammered Terry—for George appeared staggered out of his wits. "He said it was gold and he's got sacks full, right in his wagon."
Sol laughed.
"Sacks full, eh? Did anybody ever see gold dust by the gunny sack full? He's the same crazy German who was washing fool's gold from the Platte, I reckon—thought he had the real stuff and wouldn't believe otherwise. I met him, myself, when he was traveling on in for fear somebody'd rob him."
"Oh!" groaned George. "We thought——"
"Have you closed the sale of that property yonder? Haven't given a transfer yet, have you?" sharply demanded Terry's father.
"N-no; we've got the money, though. We were going to weigh it. They're waiting—they're there, working."