Tom. Yes, Dick: Mosey's safe and well.
Dick. Tom, the old hole's petered out. (Takes off knapsack, and drops it near rock R. C.) I've dug and panned for a week, and not an ounce of dust.
Tom. That's bad; but better luck next time.
Dick. Luck! Not while you hold to such an unlucky partner as I. Tom Carew, I never met a man I so much admired as I do you. When I dropped into this camp, a stranger, without a penny, you took me by the hand, let me in to your claim, an equal partner,—the best paying claim in the camp,—till I struck it; since then we haven't panned enough to pay for bacon. It's my infernal luck. I wouldn't care for myself, but to blast your prospects of a rich find—
Tom. Hold on, Dick. You complain of bad luck,—you whom Moselle loves.
Dick. That's another matter.
Tom. Right. The pure ore of a loving heart is not to be compared to the glittering lie we take to ourselves with which to purchase happiness. The one purifies and ennobles its possessor, the other too often drags us down to the dust from which we filch it.
Dick. Sentimental, Tom? Why, what's come over you?
Tom. A woman. No, an angel. Dick, the sweetest woman you ever set eyes on.
Dick. That's Moselle.