"What are you driving at?"
"I tell you: long tam ago I know old miner. He's forever talk 'bout high bars, old reever-bed, an' soch t'ing. We call him 'High Bar.' He mak' fonny story 'bout reever dat used to was on top de mountain. By golly! I laugh at him! But w'at you t'ink? I'm crossin' dose hill 'bove El Dorado an' I see place where dose miner is shoot dry timber down into de gulch. Dose log have dug up de snow an' I fin'—what?" Impressively the speaker whispered one word, "GRAVEL!"
Much to his disappointment, Rouletta remained impassive in the face of this startling announcement. Vaguely she inquired: "What of it? There's gravel everywhere. What you want is gold—"
"Mon Dieu!" 'Poleon lifted his hands in despair. "You're worse as cheechako. Where gravel is dere you fin' gold, ain't you?"
"Why—not always."
With a shrug the woodsman agreed. "Of course, not always, but—"
"On top of a hill?"
"De tip top."
"How perfectly absurd! How could gold run uphill?"
"I don' know," the other confessed. "But, for dat matter, how she run downhill? She 'ain't got no legs. I s'pose de book hexplain it somehow. Wal! I stake two claim—one for you, one for me. It's dandy place for cabin! You look forty mile from dat spot. Mak' you feel jus' lak bird on top of high tree. Dere's plenty dry wood, too, an' down below is de Forks—nice town wit' saloon an' eatin'-place. You can hear de choppin' an' de win'lass creakin' and smell de smoke. It's fine place for singin' songs up dere."