"Rich! There's gold everywhere. The ground is full of it."
The old man heard these words, and attempted to rise.
"Help me up," he cried. "I must go! D'ye hear what he says? The ground is full of gold. Give me yer hand, pard, an' help me out of this."
"No, no, Tom; you can't; you're not able," the young man insisted, pushing him gently back.
"I can't! Why can't I? Why should I stay here an' let the others get all the gold? I've been rustlin' fer gold all me life, an' d'ye think I'll be baulked when it's so near? Let me up, I say."
"But you know, Tom, it's impossible," the young man urged. "You're all in. You should never have come on this trip at all."
"I shouldn't! Why shouldn't I? I'm not a baby."
"But think how sick you were at Rapid City. Why, man, you got out of bed to come, and would listen to no advice. It's a wonder to me that you're not dead. What kept you up for days on that trail is more than I can understand."
"It was the gold that did it, ha, ha," and the old man's eyes glowed with the intense light of the enthusiast. "Yes, the gold'll cure all sickness in my body. It always has. Didn't dozens of chaps play right out, while I came through? Yes, an' by God, I'll go on, too, an' won't be stuck here. I'll stake my claim with the rest. I've never been beaten, an' won't now!"
"Now, look here, Tom. Don't you worry about that claim you hope to stake. I'll stake it for you, so it will be all right."