Taking the earth into his hand, the refiner of precious metals examined the glistening mass carefully, turning it over and over in his hand.
“Yes, it is gold,” said he.
“Gold, gold!” yelled the man at the top of his voice.
At the magic word every man started into life, stumbling over one another in their efforts to secure spade and pickaxe and join the maddened crowd hastening to the stream. Puffing and blowing like a seal, Adam Clotworthy waddled along, bringing up the rear, his spade dragging behind him.
Did unused muscles ache? Let them. Cracked and bleeding hands smarted under blisters. Who cared? Was not the precious metal lying in tons before their eyes?
“Try and put a stop to this digging of fool’s gold,” begged Captain Smith of Robert Hunt.
“I can do nothing while this fever rages in their veins. If you look at their frenzied faces and bloodshot eyes you will see that my efforts would be useless. Even Newport has joined in the mad rush. His boat will soon be loaded, and after his departure we may be able to do something.”
The warm breath of spring was upon them before Captain Newport sailed down the stream with his valuable cargo. All of the gold diggers gathered on the beach to witness his departure. Here and there the superstitious ones threw a few beads into the water for luck, as they had seen the Indians do when starting on a voyage.
After the ships had drifted out of sight, Captain Smith began to urge the colonists to rebuild the fort and cabins.
“Even if the cargo turns out to be gold, you cannot leave this country unless you receive a special passport from King James, and that no doubt will be long in coming. Perhaps if you prove industrious, the Company will in time give each of you a house, and land to till for your own gain. But until they see some fruit from you, nothing will be forthcoming for your benefit.”