"Great Scott! What for?" asked Nick bluntly.
"Gold," replied the other. "I'll tell you about it. My name's Glenn—Roger Glenn. We came here a year ago prospecting. We heard there was gold down here, but we didn't do much, and an Indian who was snowbound here last winter told my father that there was rich placer ground the other side of the mountains."
"But no one's ever been across there," objected Nick. "There's no pass."
"The Indian told us there was. He made a map. Here's a copy of it."
"So your dad tried it?" said Nick, staring curiously at the rough map.
"He went the first of June last, and I've not seen or heard of him since. He said he'd be back in six or eight weeks."
"Gee, but that's bad," replied Nick sympathetically. "What do you reckon you are to do?"
"What can I do?" cried young Glenn bitterly. "I'm mad to go after him, but I haven't a red cent to grubstake myself or buy a pony or dogs or a sledge."
Nick stared in silence at the other for some seconds. Then he said slowly:
"Say, Mr. Glenn, that flood may have done us both a good turn. What d'ye say to taking me along in your trip over the Snowies?"