“Don’t you prophesy until after the event.”
“Dal,” said Abel, as he sat, gaunt of visage, darkened by exposure, and totally different from the bright, eager fellow of a few months earlier.
“Yes?”
“You will not go away and leave me?”
“I must, old fellow. The coals for the human grate are nearly out, and I must fetch some more.”
“If you go you will find me dead when you come back. To die alone! Horrible!”
“Nonsense! Old Norton will come in every day and have a look at you if I ask him. He’s a good old chap, Bel; I wish he had had better luck. I say, though, this is a rum game. You and I are now living in this rough dog-kennel, and bad as our luck has been, we have been turning out gold at the rate of, say, five hundred a year. Not bad that for beginners.”
“And it takes all we get to barter for the wretched food,” groaned Abel. “The prices are horrible.”
“Well, things are dear, and bad at that, as our American friends say. But we only have to double our turn-in and we shall grow rich.”
The wind was whistling and shrieking about the lonely cabin, the tattered blanket over the rough wood doorway was blown in, and the smoke eddied about the corners of the tent as a quantity of snow came through the opening, and made the fire hiss angrily.