“Then don’t you be so absurd. How can a piece of metal out here be gilt?”
“By rubbing up against other pieces, of course, just the same as your boots get brazed by rubbing ’em on the fender.”
“I believe you think it’s gold all the time, only you will not own to it,” I cried.
“’Fraid to believe it, lad; too good to be true. Why, if you can find bits like that by just wiggling your hand about in the sand, there must be lots more.”
“Yes; enough to make us both rich.”
“I say, think it really is gold?” whispered Esau, hoarsely.
“Yes, I feel sure of it.”
“Look! there’s another bit,” he cried, dashing his hand down and sending the water flying, as he caught sight of a scrap, about as big as a flattened turnip-seed, in the sand, into which it sank, or was driven down by Esau’s energetic action.
“Gone!” he said, dismally.
“Never mind; we’ll come on here with a shovel, and wash for more.”