"Do you think that a real, live, bona fide Indian like Wanatoma could be mistaken?" persisted Tim. "You make me tired, Jacky Conroy."
The big lad came back to the attack with an exasperating grin.
"Supposin' there is a mine, are any o' you chaps really silly enough to imagine for eight seconds at a stretch that we can find it by that queer scrawl o' yours, Bob Somers? Looks to me like those Egyptian hiero—hiero—"
"Help him out, somebody—do," sniffed Tim.
"Hieroglyphics," came in sepulchral tones from the bunk.
"Score another for the literary boy," laughed Sam Randall. "Bet he even knows how to spell it."
"Jack's limit is nine letters," said Tim.
"See here, fellows," broke in Bob Somers, warningly, "we're making too all-fired much racket about this thing. Your voice isn't any gentle whisper, Jack; and if it should ever get noised about the camp that we're going off on a search for a gold mine, why—"
"The noise would become a perfect din of hurrying feet," interrupted Dick Travers. "No joking, Conroy. I don't know how many times you've been howling out loud, just as though you wanted to advertise the whole business."
"I'll bet there wasn't anybody around," growled Jack.