Peters laughed.
"There's no team-load," he said. "The boy has been pulling your leg. We've got it on the pack-horse here, and the bank where it's going, for the present, anyway, is in there;" and he nodded towards the store.
Marmot braced himself up, and then, fearing lest they should see how proud he was at the flattery of their trust, attempted to demur.
"But, boys, this is a big contract," he said seriously. "I'm on to run a tally for most things; but—how much do you make it?"
"Say about a couple of thousand ounces and you overshoot it," Peters answered.
"And good gold—four notes an ounce gold?"
"Ah, now you're getting into expert talk," Peters replied. "It looks all right, but it hasn't been assayed, and it hasn't been weighed yet. We've got it; that's our point."
He and Tony were loosening the bags from where they were fastened to the pack, and as he spoke, he removed one, and came up to the verandah with it in his hands.
"Where will you have it?" he asked.
"Put it in the post-office safe," Marmot replied, with dignity, as he led the way into the store and round behind one of the counters, where a yellow-japanned tin box, with a broken brass lock and a dented lid, rested in peaceful indifference to the title given to it since the half-crown's worth of postage stamps Marmot kept on hand were placed in it with other post-office valuables.