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 pulled up and smeared with a whitish mud. There was perspiration on his forehead. It only needed the sombrero and the pistols to complete the picture of twenty years ago when Cass Murdoch, after weeks of heavy labour, found the first gold-dust in his pan. For John C. had found gold. It lay, a dirty lump of white earth, in his large spread hands. Those hands were the pan. The breeze that murmured through the pine trees came, sweet and keen, from leagues of open plain and virgin mountains far away⁠ ⁠… Eliot smelt the wood-fire smoke of camp⁠ ⁠… heard the crack of the rifle as someone killed the dinner⁠ ⁠…

'Well, John C.,' he gasped, as he dropped back likewise into the vanished pocket of the years, 'what's your luck? Out with it, man, out with it!'

'A fortune,' replied his visitor. 'Put yer finger on it right now, an' don't tell mother or burst out crying unless yer forced to!' High pleasure was in his voice.

He stepped closer, transferring the lump of dirt into the hand his host unconsciously stretched open to receive it. It lay there a moment, looking even dirtier than before against the more delicate skin. Eliot felt it with finger and thumb. It was soft and sticky and a little moist. It stained the flesh.

Then he looked up and stared into his companion's eyes⁠—blankly. A horrible excitement worked underground in him. But he did not even yet understand.

'You've got it,' observed John C., with dry finality.

'Got what?' asked Eliot.

'Got it right there in yer westkit pocket,' said the other, with an air of supreme satisfaction. His cigar