Hazel
leaned over him, breathless. He sifted the gravel and sand through his
fingers slowly, picking out and examining all that might be the
precious metal, and as he picked and clawed the rusty, brown nuggets
came to light. At last he reached bottom. The bowlder thrust out
below in a natural shelf. From this Bill carefully scraped the
accumulation of black sand and gravel, gleaning as a result of his
labor a baker's dozen of assorted chunks--one giant that must have
weighed three pounds. He sat back on his haunches, and looked at his
wife, speechless.
"Is that truly _all_ gold, Bill?" she whispered incredulously.
"It certainly is--as good gold as ever went into the mint," he assured.
"All laid in a nice little nest on this shelf of rock. I've heard of
such things up in this country, but I never ran into one before--and
I've always taken this pocket theory with a grain of salt. But there
you are. That's a real, honest-to-God pocket. And a well-lined one,
if you ask me. This rusty-colored outside is oxidized iron--from the
black sand, I guess. Still, it might be something else. But I know
what the inside is, all right, all right."
"My goodness!" she murmured.
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