But the reality did not come up to the dazzling dream in which they had indulged, either in their case or that of the men they encountered. There was the gold, and they won it from the soil; but it was only by hard labour and in small quantities, which were stored up in a leathern bag and placed in the bank—this being a hole formed under Abel’s bed, covered first with a few short pieces of plank, and then with dry earth.
The store increased as the time went on, but then it decreased when an expedition had to be made to the settlement below to fetch more provisions, the country around supplying them with plenty of fuel and clear drinking water, but little else. Now and then there was the rumour of a moose being seen, and a party would turn out and shoot it, when there was feasting while it lasted; but these days were few.
Occasionally, too, either Dallas or Abel would stroll round with his gun and get a few ptarmigan or willow grouse. On lucky days, too, a brace of wild ducks would fall to their shot; but these excursions were rare, for there was the one great thirst to satisfy—that for the gold; and for the most part their existence during the brief summer was filled up by hard toil, digging and cradling the gold-bearing gravel, while they lived upon coarse bacon, beans, and ill-made cakey bread, tormented horribly the while by the mosquitoes, which increased by myriads in the sunny time.
Then came the days when the wretched little insect pests began to grow rarer.
“We shall not be able to work as late as this much longer,” said Dallas.
“No,” replied Abel; “the days are getting horribly short, and the nights terribly long. The dark winter will be upon us directly, and we seem to get no farther.”
“We may turn up trumps at any moment, old fellow,” said Dallas cheerily.
“Yes, we may,” said Abel gloomily.
“Don’t take it like that,” cried Dallas. “Here we are in the gold region, and every day we find nuggets.”
“Weighing two or three grains apiece.”