What little mercury remained in the glittering mass was evaporated out in a shovel over the camp-fire. 300
For the first time Angela realized why the gold-miner, once successful, could never rid himself of the fever. All the bitter disappointments, pessimism, and misery vanished in the presence of that sizzling mass in the shovel. It was difficult to believe that here, dug from the frozen earth, was the thing for which men suffered, sinned, and died.
Jim seized the gold nugget with his leathern hands and tossed it into the air, caught it again, and dropped it into his hat.
“Angela, you’re right. We’re bursting with wealth! There ain’t bin nothin’ like this since that guy found Bonanza Creek. And now I’ve got to git to Dawson.”
“Dawson!”
“Yep. It ain’t ours yet. I’ve got to stake claims—one for you and one for me.”
“Then I’ll come too.”
“Nope. Any prowling broiler might bunch in and take a fancy to this pitch. You jest sit tight. I’ll be back to-morrow morning.”
“But you can’t get to Dawson and back in one night.”
“Can’t I? Jest watch my smoke. I’ll get the claims registered and yank a man up here from 301 the Syndicate. We’ll sure sell out and save digging. We’ll come down the river. You ain’t skeered of stoppin’ alone?”