“Pyrites? No,” I said. “It’s gold; I’m sure of it. Look what a beautiful yellow colour it is.”
“So’s lots of things a beautiful yellow colour,” said Esau, sneeringly, as he curled up his lip and looked contemptuously at the contents of my hand. “Tell you what it is—it’s brass.”
“How can it be brass?” I said, examining the scales, which looked dead and frosted, but of a beautiful yellow.
“Very easy.”
“Don’t be absurd,” I cried, bringing my school knowledge to bear; “brass is an artificial product.”
“That it ain’t,” cried Esau, triumphantly; “why, it’s strong as strong, and they use it for all sorts of things.”
“I mean, it’s made by melting copper and tin or zinc together. It’s an alloy, not a natural metal.”
“Don’t tell me,” said Esau, excitedly; “think I don’t know? It’s brass, and it’s got melted up together somehow.”
“Nonsense,” I cried; “it’s gold; I’m sure of it.”
“’Tain’t. Yah! that isn’t gold.”