“You’re right—we’ve tested that and we’re sure of it. But we mustn’t despise the rest, on that account. Now, here’s where the roaster stood—it must hev stood here, ’cause it couldn’t hev stood any place else. Well, I’m goin’ to sink a shaft here.” Mundon stooped as he spoke, and with his pocket-knife he dug a small hole, from which he unearthed several small lumps of metal.
“Just as I thought,” he said as he weighed them in his hand,—“lead ore that’ll assay heavy in silver.”
“Then, there are those dumps,—made when the furnaces were put in, you thought. We haven’t touched those yet.”
“You mean outside, where the old fence stood?”
“Yes. Why, just look here.” Ben drew Mundon outside the gates to where some mounds rose from the beach. “It’s my opinion that this board that’s nailed on the fence here, opposite these heaps, was put here to mark them.”
“They’re heaps of waste, most likely. Somethin’ ’s ben scratched into the wood. Let’s see what it is.”
They carefully examined the board, and Ben deciphered the inscription, “Waste Bullion.”
“Just think!” he cried, “that old Madge has let this pile of stuff that’s one third solid silver, maybe, stay here all these years! And Mr. Fish, close as he is, too,” he added. “It’s awfully funny!”
“It ain’t funny that Fish didn’t do nothin’ with it, ’cause he’s the kind that just collects rents and forecloses mortgages. He wouldn’t put up a cent in any venture like this; he’d call it oncertain. But old Madge is a born miner. Well, it is funny. He’ll be wild.”