Somehow, in a vague way, we had unreasonably expected millions at a twist of the wrist; and the words, “twelve cents,” had a rankly penurious sound to us. However, the miner patiently explained that a twelve-cent pan was a very good one; and indubitably it was real gold.
Yank, being older and less excitable, had not accompanied us to the waterside.
“Well, boys,” he drawled, “that twelve cents is highly satisfactory, of course; but in the meantime we’ve lost about six hundred dollars’ worth of hoss and grub.”
Surely enough, our animals had tired of waiting for us, and had moved out packs and all. We hastily shouldered our implements.
“Don’t you want to keep this claim next me?” inquired our acquaintance.
We stopped.
“Surely!” I replied. “But how do we do it?”
“Just leave your pick and shovel in the hole.”
“Won’t some one steal them?”
“No.”