We soon found that there
was no hope of our getting into the mines.
"They'd think you were spies for the other mines, or
something of that sort," said a man to us. "Nobody can get down.
Nobody knows where they are digging, and they don't mean that
anybody shall. They may be digging under their own property
exclusively, and they may not. For all I know, they may be taking
gold that belongs to me a thousand feet, more or less, under my
back yard."
"If I had a back yard here," said Jack, after we had passed
on, "I'd put my ear to the ground once in a while and listen, and
if I heard anybody burrowing under it I'd--well--I'd yell scat at
'em."
We found no difficulty in getting in the stamp-mills, and a
man kindly told us much about them.
"The Homestake Mills make up the largest gold-reducing plant
in the world," said the man. "Where do you suppose the largest
single stamp-mill in the world is?" We guessed California.
"No," he said; "it's in Alaska--the Treadwell Mill."
We decided that the stamp-mills were the noisiest place we
were ever in.
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