the pick and begin breaking up the lumps. Every now and again, he would
lift the small sack into which the lumps were dropped. It grew heavier
every moment.

It was quite dark all about him; indeed, Johnny was nearly a hundred
feet straight into the heart of a cut bank, and, to start on this
straight ahead drift, he had been obliged to lower himself into a shaft
as into a well, a drop of fifteen feet or more. That the mine had other
drifts he knew, but this one suited him. That it had another occupant he
also knew, but this did not trouble him. He was too much interested in
the yellow glitter of real gold to think of danger. And he was half
dazed by the realization that there could be a gold mine like this in
Siberia. Alaska had gold, plenty of it, of course, and he was now less
than two hundred miles from Alaska, but he had never dreamed that the
dreary slopes of the Kamchatkan Peninsula could harbor such wealth.
Someone had been mining it, too, but that must have been months, perhaps
years, ago. The pick handles were rough with decay, the pans red with
rust.

Curiosity had led Johnny to this spot, a half mile from the native
village at the mouth of the Anadir River. He had been marooned again in
that village. They had covered three hundred miles on their last
journey, then had come another pause. This time, though he did not even
see his dogs about the village, Johnny felt sure that the Russian had
once more taken to hiding.

Having nothing else to do, Johnny had followed a narrow track up the
river. The track had come to an end at the entrance to the mine.
Thinking it merely a sort of crude cold storage plant for keeping meat
fresh, he had let himself down to explore it. Increasing curiosity had