Wild Water shook his head. “I'm no good at figgers. One batch at a time an' no mistakes.”
Going to his fur coat, from each of the side pockets he drew forth two sacks of dust, so rotund and long that they resembled bologna sausages. When the first batch had been paid for, there remained in the gold-sacks not more than several hundred dollars.
A soap-box was carried to the table, and the count of the three thousand began. At the end of one hundred, Wild Water struck an egg sharply against the edge of the table. There was no crack. The resultant sound was like that of the striking of a sphere of solid marble.
“Frozen solid,” he remarked, striking more sharply.
He held the egg up, and they could see the shell powdered to minute fragments along the line of impact.
“Huh!” said Shorty. “It ought to be solid, seein' it has just been freighted up from Forty Mile. It'll take an ax to bust it.”
“Me for the ax,” said Wild Water.
Smoke brought the ax, and Wild Water, with the clever hand and eye of the woodsman, split the egg cleanly in half. The appearance of the egg's interior was anything but satisfactory. Smoke felt a premonitory chill. Shorty was more valiant. He held one of the halves to his nose.
“Smells all right,” he said.
“But it looks all wrong,” Wild Water contended. “An' how can it smell when the smell's frozen along with the rest of it? Wait a minute.”