It was a long time before we knew, for Quong turned the sand about over and over again, and then inspected it with a peculiarly magpieish air, before he shook his head, tossed the sand away, and selected another spot in the stream, where he went through the same process, while we lay and watched him till the final examination. This time, just as I fully expected to see him toss out the sand, he rose up with a triumphant look on his yellow face, and caught sight of us. His jaw dropped, and he appeared frightened, but the dread seemed to pass away, and he came towards us with his tin.
“Me washee gole,” he said, excitedly. “Fine gole.”
“Where?” said Gunson, abruptly. “Let’s look.”
He stretched out his hand for the tin, which was placed in it hesitatingly, Quong’s face betokening that he did not expect to see it again.
Gunson gave the half-dry sand a shake which spread part of it over the bottom of the tin, then another and another, while I looked on eagerly, and at last he uttered a contemptuous “pish!”
“I thought you said you had found gold.”
“Yes. Quong fine gole. Washee gole.”
“Washee gole! Where is it then?”
The Chinaman took back the tin, shook it, peered in among the grains of sand; shook it again and again; then shook his head instead, and looked up at Gunson.
“Yes; washee gole,” he said, in a tone of voice which seemed to mean, “but it’s gone away now.”