his rifle on his shoulder, followed.

A sudden thought struck Birt. He stopped short.

"Now _I_ dunno which side o' that thar lick Nate Griggs's line runs
on," he remarked.

"Never mind," said the professor, waving away objections with airy
efficiency; "I shall first secure the consent of the owner of the
land."

Birt cogitated for a moment. "Nate Griggs ain't goin' ter gin his
cornsent ter nobody ter dig ennywhar down the ravine, ef it air
inside o' his lines," he said confidently, "'kase I--'kase he--
leastwise, 'kase gold hev been fund hyar lately, an' he hev entered
the land."

The professor stopped short in the path.

"Gold!" he ejaculated. "Gold!"

Was there a vibration of incredulity in his voice?

Birt remembered all at once the specimens which he had picked up
that memorable evening, down the ravine, when he shot the red fox.
Here they still were in his pocket. They showed lustrous, metallic,
yellow gleams as he placed them carefully in the old man's
outstretched hand, telling how he came by them, of his mistaken
confidence, the betrayed trust, and ending by pointing at the group
of gold-seekers, microscopic in the distance on the opposite slope.