Potch's prospect was disappointing, however, and of no sensational value when he did bottom; but after a few days he came on a streak or two of promising colours, and Michael left the first shaft they had sunk on the coolebah to work with Potch in the new mine.
They had been on the new claim, with nothing to show for their pains, for nearly two months, the afternoon Potch, who had been shifting opal dirt of a dark strain below the steel band on the south side of the mine, uttered a low cry.
"Michael," he called.
Michael, gouging in a drive a few yards away, knew the meaning of that joyous vibration in a man's voice. He stumbled out of the drive and went to Potch.
Potch Was holding his spider off from a surface of opal his pick had clipped. It glittered, an eye of jet, with every light and star of red, green, gold, blue, and amethyst, leaping, dancing, and quivering together in the red earth of the mine. Michael swore reverently when he saw it. Potch moved his candle before the chipped corner of the stones which he had worked round sufficiently to show that a knobby of some size was embedded in the wall of the mine.
"Looks a beaut, doesn't she, Michael?" he gasped.
Michael breathed hard.
"By God——" he murmured.
Paul, hearing the murmur of their voices, joined them.
He screamed when he saw the stone.