thing in the hunch, this is
the place. Bedrock dips in above, and it's deep there and most likely
richer, but too much work. This is the rim of the bench. Can't be
more'n a couple of feet down. All we want is indications; afterwards
we can tap in from the side."

As he talked, he started fires here and there on the uncovered spaces.
"But look here, Corliss, I want you to mind this ain't pocketin'. This
is just plain ordinary 'prentice work; but pocketin'"--he straightened
up his back and spoke reverently--"but pocketin' is the deepest science
and the finest art. Delicate to a hair's-breadth, hand and eye true
and steady as steel. When you've got to burn your pan blue-black twice
a day, and out of a shovelful of gravel wash down to the one wee speck
of flour gold,--why, that's washin', that's what it is. Tell you what,
I'd sooner follow a pocket than eat."

"And you would sooner fight than do either." Bishop stopped to
consider. He weighed himself with care equal to that of retaining the
one wee speck of flour gold. "No, I wouldn't, neither. I'd take
pocketin' in mine every time. It's as bad as dope; Corliss, sure. If
it once gets a-hold of you, you're a goner. You'll never shake it.
Look at me! And talk about pipe-dreams; they can't burn a candle
'longside of it."

He walked over and kicked one of the fires apart. Then he lifted the
pick, and the steel point drove in and stopped with a metallic clang,
as though brought up by solid cement.

"Ain't thawed two inches," he muttered, stooping down and groping with
his fingers in the wet muck. The blades of last year's grass had been
burned away, but he managed to gather up and tear away a handful of the
roots.

"Hell!"

"What's the matter?" Corliss asked.

"Hell!" he repeated in a passionless way, knocking the dirt-covered
roots against the pan.

Corliss went over and stooped to closer inspection. "Hold on!" he
cried, picking up two or three grimy bits of dirt and rubbing them with
his fingers. A bright yellow flashed forth.

"Hell!" the pocket-miner reiterated tonelessly. "First rattle out the
box. Begins at the grass roots and goes all the way down."

Head turned to the side and up, eyes closed, nostrils distended and
quivering, he rose suddenly to his feet and sniffed the air. Corliss
looked up wonderingly.

"Huh!" the pocket-miner grunted. Then he drew a deep breath. "Can't
you smell them oranges?"

CHAPTER XVI

The stam