“What are they up to?” asked Joe. “Have they lost something?”
At this moment, my horse’s hoof striking a stone caused the three men to look up. One was Connor, one was his helper, and the other, to our surprise, was Yetmore.
Connor sprang to his feet and ran towards us, crying:
“What did I tell you, boys! What did I tell you! Get off your ponies, quick, and come and see!”
He was wild with excitement.
We slid from our horses, and joining the other two, went down on our knees beside them. Upon the ground before them lay the object of their worship: a “core” from the drill, neatly pieced together, about eight feet long and something less than an inch in diameter. Of this core, four feet or more at one end and about half a foot at the other was composed of some kind of stone, but in between, for a length of three feet and an inch or two, it was all smooth, shining lead-ore.
Tom Connor had struck it, and no mistake!
“Tom,” said Yetmore, as we all rose to our feet again, “this looks like a pretty fair strike; but you’ve got to remember that we know nothing about the extent of the vein—one hole doesn’t prove much. It is three feet thick at this particular point, but it may be only three inches five feet away; and as to its length and breadth, why, that’s all pure speculation. All the same I’m ready to make a deal with you. I’ll buy your interest or I’ll sell you mine. What do you say?”
“What’s the use of that kind of talk?” growled Connor. “You know I haven’t a cent to my name. Besides, I haven’t any interest.”
“You—what!—you haven’t any interest!” cried the other. “What do you mean?”