“Come on after me,” said the scout, “and let’s see what we can make out of the level.”
He entered the darkness of the drift, scratching matches as he proceeded. Twenty feet measured the length of the level, and the scout brought up short against a wall of virgin rock.
“Nothing much here, baron,” said he. “The men who located this property drifted twenty feet off the shaft to find the lead. They didn’t find it, and so gave up.”
“I haf found somet’ing,” said the baron. “Look here, vonce.”
The scout retraced his way a few feet to where the baron was standing. On the floor of the level, directly in front of the baron, was something that looked like a pile of silver balls. Each ball was about the size of a man’s fist, and there must have been more than a hundred of them.
The scout picked up one of the balls, examined it a moment, and then dropped it in amazement.
“Vat’s der madder, Puffalo Pill?” queried the baron, in some excitement. “Meppy dis iss a silfer-mine, hey?”
The match flickered out in the scout’s fingers, and the baron heard a low laugh.
“Vat for you laugh like dot?” demanded the baron. “Meppy ve can take dot silfer avay, und sell him und make some money. Oof dere iss money enough for me to ged marrit on, all vat habbened mit me I vill call a goot t’ing. Dose Inchuns dropped us indo a silfer-mine; und der choke’s on dem, hey?”
“Baron,” said the scout, “this isn’t a silver-mine.”