Then the washing began in the bright sunshine, with the same results—a few tiny specks of colour, as the men termed their glittering scales of gold-dust.
“That’s your sort, gentlemen,” cried the Cornishman, washing out his pan, after tossing the contents away; “plenty of gold, and if you worked hard you might get about half enough to starve on. Why, we could ha’ done better at home, down in Wales. You can get a hundred pounds’ worth of gold there if you spend a hundred and fifty in labour.”
“Yes; but even this dust shows that we are getting into the gold region,” said Dallas.
“That’s right, my son, so come along and let’s get there. I s’pose we’re going right?”
“We must be,” said Dallas. “I have studied the maps well, and we passed the watershed—”
“Eh? We haven’t passed no watershed. Not so much as a tent.”
Dallas had to explain that they had crossed the mountains which shed the water in different directions.
“Oh, that’s it, is it, my son? I thought you meant something built up.”
“So he did,” said Abel, smiling, “by nature. When we were on the other side of the mountains the streams ran towards the south.”
“That’s right, master.”