“Why, Pop,” said the superintendent, winking to the expressman, “this lump looks as though it contained gold.”
“Yes,” put in the expressman, “that's how gold comes in a mine. I've often handled it. That's the stuff, sure.”
The fruit-selling boy and the mail-man grinned. Pop Thornberry opened wide his mouth and eyes and softly repeated the word:
“Goal!”
“I'd be careful of it,” advised Mr. Monroe, handing the clod back to the negro.
Pop took it with a trembling hand and looked at it. Presently he asked:
“W'at'll you give me foh dat air goal, Mistah Monroe.”
“Oh, a piece like that would be no use to me. It has to be washed and it wouldn't be worth while putting just one piece through the whole process of cleaning. Now. If you have a lot of it, we might go into partnership in the gold business.”
Before the old man could answer to this pleasantry a whistle was heard up the track, and Pop was forgotten in the excitement attending the arrival of the train.
Dislodged from the baggage-truck, the old man looked around for Mr. Monroe, but the superintendent had disappeared. Pop did not seek to carry any satchels that day. His mind was full of other matters. He went behind the station and sat down beside the river.