"Nobody in with you?"
"No."
"Nine."
Echo, "Nine."
"Ten."
"Pitcairn says, somehow or other, there's been gold-washin' goin' on up here pretty well ever since the world began."
"Indians?"
"No; seems to have been a bigger job than even white men could manage. Instead o' stamp-mills, glaciers grindin' up the Mother Lode; instead o' little sluice-boxes, rivers; instead o' riffles, gravel bottoms. Work, work, wash, wash, day and night, every summer for a million years. Never a clean-up since the foundation of the world. No, sir, waitin' for us to do that—waitin' now up on Idaho Bar."
The Captain looked at him, trying to conceal the envy in his soul. They were sounding low water, but he never heard. He looked round sharply as the course changed.
"I've done my assessment," the ragged man went on joyously, "and I'm going to Dawson."