“Oh, Michael!” he broke out incoherently. “Oh, Michael!”
“I am taking out about twenty ounces a day,” said the lay brother. “Some days I have touched forty.”
“Mercy of God!” cried the old man, hoarsely. “Mercy of God, show me how you do it!”
Michael had another cradle ready to hand. It was the first he had made he said, and nothing like so good as the other; but it would do for a day or two until they made a new one—yes, it would do, though a lot of the finer stuff was lost. You did it this way—so—just rocking it like a baby’s cradle; the squares of blanket screened the gold, and you washed them out afterwards in a pan. A place? Oh, anywhere along the stream. It was all rotten with gold.
The priest hurried off, and was soon shaking frantically a hundred yards below. He had not been gone an hour when he came hurrying back to where his companion was still at work.
“Look at that!” he cried, holding out a trembling hand. “Oh, Michael, what is it worth?”
“Three or four pounds, perhaps,” said the lay brother, indulgently.
“Mercy of God!” cried the priest, and he was off again at a run.
A little later he came back again. They were watched, he said; he was certain they were watched. He could hardly speak for agitation. He had heard noises behind him, again, and again, like the laughter of girls in the bush.
But Michael only derided his fears. The bush was a creepy place, he said, when you were all alone in it. He had felt the same way himself when he first came, and was eternally peeping over his shoulder and stopping his work to listen. One got used to it after a while; he supposed it must be some kind of a bird.