e who dug steadily in one place. The others
tried spot after spot.

"You've got t' stick t' one lead until you find somethin', or until
it peters out," explained the miner. "You must git down to th' dirt
before you'll find any gold, though you may strike a few grains that
have worked up into th' ice."

After this advice they all kept to one hole until they had worked
down through the ice to the dirt surface below. But even then, Abe,
who was the first to achieve this, found no gold, and the old miner
went to another location.

All the rest of that day they dug, but with no result. Not even a
few grains of yellow dust rewarded their efforts.

"Are you sure this is the right place?" asked Mr. Damon, somewhat
fretfully, of Abe, as they ate supper that night in the airship,
sheltered as it was in the ice cave.

"I'm positive of it," was the reply. "There's gold here, but it will
take some prospectin' t' find it. Maybe th' deposits have been
shifted by th' ice movement, as Mr. Parker says. But it's here, an'
we'll git it. We'll try ag'in t'-morrow."

They did try, but with small success. Laboring all day in the cold
the only result was a few little yellow pebbles that Tom found
imbedded in the ice. But they were gold, and the finding of them
gave the seekers hope as they wearily began their task the following
day. The weather seemed even colder, and there was the indication of
a big storm.

They were scattered in different places on the ice, not far away
from the big cave, each one picking away vigorously. Suddenly Abe,
who had laboriously worked his way down to the dirt, gave an
exultant yell.

"I've struck it! Struck it rich!" he shouted, leaping about as he
threw down his pick, "Look here, everybody!" He stooped down over
the hole. They all ran to his side, and saw him lifting from a
little pocket in the dirt, several large, yellow pebbles.

"Gold! Gold!" cried Abe. "We've struck it at last!"

For a moment no one spoke, though there was a wild beating of their
hearts. Then, off toward the farther end of the valley there sounded
a curious noise. It was a shouting and yelling, mingled with the
snapping of whips and the howls and barkings of dogs.

"Bless my handkerchief!" cried Mr. Damon. "What's that?"

They all saw a moment later. Approaching over the frozen snow were
several Eskimo sledges, drawn by dog teams, and the native drivers
were shouting and cracking their whips of walrus hide.

"The natives ar