“Why isn’t it iron pyrites—the salt of iron and sulphur?”
“Because if it had been it would have broken up into little bits: you could have ground it into dust.”
“So you could this,” said Brace.
“Impossible. You could beat it out into a thin sheet which you could blow away. That’s gold, sir. I had two years’ prospecting for metals and precious stones up in the Rockies, with a first-class mineralogist, and, without bragging, I think I know what I’m saying. This river’s full of rich metallic gold, I’m sure of that.”
“I daresay you are,” said Sir Humphrey: “only if this sand-spit is ten times as rich in gold I’m not going to stay here any longer. We shall be eaten up.”
“Yes,” said Brace, “the little wretches! They’re almost as bad as the tiny fish.”
“What, these sand-flies?” said Briscoe, slapping his face and arms. “Yes, they are a pretty good nuisance. Let’s get ashore towards the fire—the smoke will soon make them drift.”
“Well, I’ve learned something about gold to-day,” said Brace, as they picked their way back through the shallows to the bank of the river; “but oughtn’t we to mark this place down so that it should be ready for the next gold-seekers?”
“It wants no marking down,” replied Briscoe: “the place will tell its own tale to anyone hunting for it.”
And he tossed the sand out of the pans, gave them a rinse, and stepped ashore.