“Well, old foxey, what do you want?” asked the owner of the hut, who happened to be blowing off the sand from a heap of his gold at the time.
“Sure it’s only a little sand I want,” said the man, in a brogue which betrayed his origin.
“Sand, Paddy, what for?”
“For emery, sure,” said the man, with a very rueful look; “troth it’s myself as is gittin’ too owld entirely for the diggin’s. I was a broth of a boy wance, but what wid dysentery and rheumatiz there’s little or nothin’ o’ me left, so I’m obleeged to contint myself wid gatherin’ the black sand, and sellin’ it as a substitute for emery.”
“Well, that is a queer dodge,” said the miner, with a laugh.
“True for ye, it is quare, but it’s what I’m redooced to, so av you’ll be so kind as plaze to blow the sand on to this here tray, it’ll be doin’ a poor man a good turn, an’ costin’ ye nothin’.”
He held up a tin tray as he spoke, and the miner cheerfully blew the sand off his gold-dust on to it.
Thanking him with all the fervour peculiar to his race, the Irishman emptied the sand into his bag, and heaving a heavy sigh, left the hut to request a similar favour of other miners.
“You may depend on it,” said Frank, as the old man went out, “that fellow is humbugging you. It is gold, not sand, that he wants.”
“That’s a fact,” said Joe Graddy, with an emphatic nod and wink.