The Sour-dough nodded, and Lighter laughed.
"There's a fox's mask," said the Colonel at the bottom of the table, pointing a triangular bit out.
"Let me look at it a minute," begged the Boy.
"Hand it round," whispered Schiff.
It was real. It was gold. Their fingers tingled under the first contact. This was the beginning.
The rude bit of metal bred a glorious confidence. Under the magic of its touch Robert Bruce's expensive education became a simple certainty. In Potts's hand the nugget gave birth to a mighty progeny. He saw himself pouring out sackfuls before his enraptured girl.
The Boy lifted his flaring torch with a victorious sense of having just bought back the Orange Grove; and Salmon P. passed the nugget to his partner with a blissful sigh.
"Well, I'm glad we didn't get cold feet," says he.
"Yes," whispered Schiff; "it looks like we goin' to the right place."
The sheen of the heap of yellow treasure was trying even to the nerves of the Colonel.