"Some French feller mak' lucky strike, eh?" 'Poleon was not greatly interested. "Where de place is? Who dis Frenchman?"
"It's a high bar somewhere above El Dorado—a mountain of pay gravel—an old river-bed or something. They say it's where all the gold came from, the mother lode. You can see it right at the grass roots—"
'Poleon started and his mouth opened; then he shook his head.
"By Gar! Dat's fonny! I seen gravel up dere, but me—I'm onlucky. Never I quite get not'in'; always I'm close by when 'noder feller mak' strike."
Pierce still managed to control himself enough to explain: "They were shooting dead timber down into the gulch and they wore the snow off where the rim cropped out. It happened to be staked ground right there." Pierce's excitement, the odd light in his dancing eyes, bore to 'Poleon a significance. "Some Frenchman had taken it up, so they called it Frenchman's Hill."
Doret's blank, confounded stare caused the speaker finally to blurt out: "Good Heavens! man, wake up! I'm trying to break the news gently that you're a millionaire—the Frenchman of Frenchman's Hill. I don't want you to faint. First time in history a miner ever left his claim and another fellow came along—"
Doret uttered a feeble cry and rose to his feet. "Ma soeur!" he exclaimed. "She's got claim up dere—I stake it for her. For me, I don' care if I lose mine—plenty tam I come jus' so close as dis; but if dem feller jump her groun'—"
"Wait, wait! There's no question of anything like that. Nobody has jumped your claim, or hers, either. The law wouldn't let 'em. I wonder if she knows—Why, she CAN'T know! I left her not two hours ago—"
"She don' know?"
Pierce shook his head. "She doesn't dream. I wish I'D known. I'd have loved to tell her."