Silas. My old man took it into his head about twelve years ago to start west, minin'; and we've never seen him from that day to this. Nice old fellow, the deacon, but queer. Started off without so much as a good-by, Hannah, and has been lost to his family, the church, and Switcham, ever since. But we heard from him occasionally in the shape of gold-dust to mother, but no word or clew to his whereabouts. Mother's worried so, I've come out here to look him up if he's alive. Any of you know Deacon Steele?
Jube. Deacon who? Golly! we's all out ob deacons: dey fall from grace when dey git out here.
Vermont. You're wasting time, youngster: the deacon's dead and buried.
Silas. You knew him?
Vermont. No: but deacons die young here.
Tom. Perhaps 'tis Nevada.
Vermont and Jube. Nevada!
Silas. Who's Nevada?
Tom. The mystery of the mines: you may meet him here to-day, to-morrow in some gloomy gulch,—a ragged, crazy miner, seeking, as he has sought for ten years, a lost mine.