“Buried there.”
“Take the pick and dig it up.”
“What do you say to that,” I asked as I pulled out a bag, “and that and that and that.”
“Jim, we are a fine lot of duffers, come in, this new chum and the cat, mind you the cat, have beaten every man on the Bonanza and Eldorado.”
Jim came in and stared, he could not speak, then he whispered, “How many has he got?”
“Only forty bags.”
“But the gold is not mine,” I said.
“Not yours, then whose is it?”
“The dead man’s.”
“And you will not keep it?”