In the far away valley, work on the lost mine progressed famously. Since the greater part of the digging had been done long ago by Tom Kennedy and his partner, there remained little to be done save to pick away at the gold-laden gravel, to hoist it through the floor, then to wash it out in water brought up from the lake. Even with so much of the work done, it was a slow process. Days passed. Each day saw Tom Kennedy’s moose-hide sack a little heavier, but each day brought their small supply of flour, sugar, bacon and beans dwindling lower and lower.
“We’ll kill a fat reindeer and pay Bowman for it when we get back,” said Tom Kennedy.
“Grandfather, if we are to drive those reindeer all the way back it will take days and days,” Florence was worried. “There will be nothing left to eat but reindeer meat. Can we live on that?”
“We can try. Eskimo do.”
“We’re not Eskimo.”
“No-o. But something will turn up. We’ll manage.” The old man was too absorbed in his golden quest to think overmuch of things to eat.
Then came the great day. “The mother-lode.” Tom Kennedy spoke to Florence. She was at his side in the mine. “See!” The light of his torch was cast back by a yellow gleam. “See! Nuggets big as bird’s eggs.”
“And—and will this be the end?” she asked.
“The end, yes,” his tone was impressive. “But enough. Who could ask for more? Only look there’ll be—” He broke short off to listen intently.
“An airplane!” the girl’s voice was low and tense.