The three awake looked at the stranger sharply, and the Cornishman opened the bag, to lay bare scales, grains, and water-worn and rubbed scraps of rich yellow gold, at the sight of which the new-comers drew their breath hard.
“Did you get this here?” cried Dallas.
“Not here, my lad, but at Upper Creek. That lot and two more like it. You’d better go on there as soon as you can if you want to take up claims; but I must tell you that all the best are gone already.”
“Which is the way?” cried Abel.
“I’ll show you when I go back to-morrow, if you like. Where shall you be?”
“Camping just over there,” said Dallas, pointing.
“All right. I’m going to sleep at the hotel to-night. Come on by-and-by and see me, and we’ll have a chat.”
“I say, my son,” said their big companion, putting his hand in the bag, half filling it, and letting the gold run back again, before beginning to fasten the flap.
“My son! Why, you’re a Cornishman.”
“That’s so.”