“Go and get some, then,” said Squeaky; but as Percy picked up the bucket he added, “You other, go with him. It’s easier to keep an eye on you while you are both together. You’ll find a place down by that rock,” pointing to the mushroom rock, which stood about fifty or sixty yards away.
Leaving our warder watching us, rifle in hand, we walked down to the spot indicated. The little creek, we found, had cut for itself a groove in the stone floor of the valley, and just below the rock was a little waterfall about a foot high, very convenient for filling a bucket. As Percy stooped for the purpose, he suddenly checked himself, and exclaimed in a quick whisper:
“Tom, Tom! Look there!”
Following the direction of his gaze—for he dared not point—I saw, just above the little cascade, a round, basin-like pot-hole in the stone bed of the creek, and in it, lying upon a layer of very black sand, a yellow lump resembling in size and shape a soldier’s button.
“Is Squeaky looking?” whispered Percy.
“Yes,” said I, glancing out of the corners of my eyes at our guard.
Without any further delay Percy filled the bucket and rose again, but as he straightened up he said softly:
“It’s gold! I’m going to upset the bucket and come back. Stand between me and Squeaky when I do so.”
“All right,” said I.
With an admirable imitation of naturalness, Percy, when we had covered half the return distance, caught his toe against a root and fell upon his face, sending the water all over my legs and filling my boots so that they went squish-squish when I hopped about, which I did with a naturalness in which there was no imitation; it was perfectly genuine; so genuine that Squeaky burst into a loud guffaw at the sight.