The iron pot, being set right down on the “duck’s nest” and heaped all around with glowing coals, had become red-hot, when my father, peering into it, held up his hand.
“That’ll do, Phil. That’s enough,” he cried. “Give me the tongs, Joe.”
My father removed the melting-pot, and making a hole with his heel in the sandy floor of the shop, he poured the contents into it.
“Lead!” we both cried, with one voice.
“Yes, lead,” my father replied. “Galena ore, ground fine by the action of water.”
“Do you mean,” I asked, “that there is a lead-mine in the bottom of the pool?”
“No, no. But there is a vein of galena, size and value unknown, somewhere up on Lincoln Mountain. The fine black sand sticking to the ground ice was brought down by our stream, being reduced to powder on the way, and deposited in the pool, where its weight has kept it from being washed out again.”
“I see. And do you suppose Yetmore recognized the sand as galena ore? Would he be likely to know it in the form of sand?”
“I expect so. He’s a sharp fellow enough. He must have seen pulverized samples of galena many a time in the assayers’ offices. I’ve seen them myself: that was what gave me my clue.”