“Wait a bit, Mas’r Harry,” whispered Tom. “Here’s a rum un here—big as a table top. Lend a hand, will you.”
Both trembling with excitement we toiled and strained, and at last extricated a great flat circular plate that seemed to weigh forty or fifty pounds, and stood it against the rock.
And now in the wild thirst I forgot all about bags or concealment as we kept scraping out the sand and water, and then brought out more plates, more cups, thin flat sheets, bars of the thickness of a finger and six inches long. Then another great round disc similar to the one I had dragged out with Tom; and then—then—sand—water—sand—water—sand—one solitary plate.
“There must be more, Tom!” I whispered excitedly. “Where is the rod?”
He felt about for a few minutes, and I heard the metal clinking upon metal as he drew the iron rod towards him. Then, feeling for the pointed end, he thrust it down here and there again and again.
“Try you, Mas’r Harry,” he said huskily.
I took the rod, and felt with it all over the pit; but everywhere it ran down easily into the sand, and I felt that we must have got all there was hidden there. And now, for the first time, I began to think of the value. Why, if this were all pure gold that lay piled-up by our side, there must be thousands upon thousands of pounds’ worth—twenty thousands at the least. But a pang shot through my brain the next instant, for the thought had struck me, suppose it should prove but copper after all.
The day would show it, and the day I hoped would soon be there. But now a new trouble assailed me. What about Tom—what share would he expect?
“Mas’r Harry,” said Tom just then, “if this here all turns out to be gold you’ll be a rich man, won’t you?”
“Yes, Tom,” I said, “very wealthy.”