Our friend of the day before nodded at us cheerfully,
and hopped down into his hole.

We removed what seemed to us tons of rock. About noon, just as we were
thinking rather dispiritedly of knocking off work for a lunch--which in
our early morning eagerness we had forgotten to bring--Johnny turned up
a shovelful whose lower third consisted of the pulverized bluish clay.
We promptly forgot both lunch and our own weariness.

"Hey!" shouted our friend, scrambling from his own claim. "Easy with the
rocks! What are you conducting here? a volcano?" He peered down at us.
"Pay dirt, hey? Well, take it easy; it won't run away!"

Take it easy! As well ask us to quit entirely! We tore at the rubble,
which aggravatingly and obstinately cascaded down upon us from the
sides; we scraped eagerly for more of that blue clay; at last we had
filled our three pans with a rather mixed lot of the dirt, and raced to
the river. Johnny fell over a boulder and scattered his panful far and
wide. His manner of scuttling back to the hole after more reminded me
irresistibly of the way a contestant in a candle race hurries back to
the starting point to get his candle relighted.

We panned that dirt clumsily and hastily enough; and undoubtedly lost
much valuable sand overside; but we ended each with a string of colour.
We crowded together comparing our "pans." Then we went crazy. I suppose
we had about a quarter of a dollar's worth of gold between us, but that
was not the point. The long journey with all its hardships and
adventures, the toil, the uncertainty, the hopes, the disappointments
and reactions had at last their visible tangible conclusion. The tiny
flecks of gold were a symbol. We yapped aloud, we kicked up our heels,
we shook hands, we finally joined hands and danced around and around.

From all sides the miners came running up, dropping their tools with a
clatter. We were assailed by a chorus of eager cries.

"What is it, boys?" "A strike?" "Whereabouts is your claim?" "Is it
'flour' or 'flake'?" "Let's see!"

They crowded around in a dense mob, and those nearest jostled to get a
glimpse of our pans. Suddenly sobered by this interest in our doings, we
would have edged away could we have got hold of our implements.

"Wall, I'll be durned!" snorted a tall state of Maine man in disgust.
"This ain't no strike! This is an insane asylum."

The news slowly penetrated the crowd. A roar of laughter went up. Most
of the men were hugely amus