The big lad's loud whistling was brought to an abrupt close by a pillow which thudded hard against him.
"Oh, you rude Tim!" he cried; and stout Dave Brandon smiled, as he watched his six friends sending the soft missile from one to another, and kept on smiling even when it collided violently with his head.
"For goodness' sake, Jack, don't have any more doubts," he drawled. "When you do, something nearly always hits me. What do I think? Don't think—I'm trying to sleep." He gave the pillow a mighty shove which sent it in a shapeless mass on the floor, and closed his eyes.
"As we were sayin'," grinned Jack Conroy, when a hearty chorus of groans had subsided, "it was mighty nice of the old Indian to do it; but, honest, I don't like to see you poor chaps goin' around thinkin' you'll be millionaires before the winter's over."
"You can't see us think," chirped Tim Lovell.
"Nor discover it, either—very often," said the big lad, witheringly. "Quit jokin', Timmy. Now, for savin' his life, old Wanna gives the crowd his mine; he's too old an' feeble to bother about it himself, he says. But—" He paused impressively.
"Well?" demanded Tim.
"Who knows whether it's really a gold mine or not? Maybe Wanna is mistaken—"
"Mistaken nothing!" snorted Tim. "Didn't we have the quartz in our hands? Didn't we see the yellow specks shinin' all through it like little stars in a cloudless sky?"
"Oh, my! What book have you been reading now?" asked Bob.