The contents of the pan diminished rapidly until only fine dirt and the smallest bits of gravel remained.  At this stage he began to work very deliberately and carefully.  It was fine washing, and he washed fine and finer, with a keen scrutiny and delicate and fastidious touch.  At last the pan seemed empty of everything but water; but with a quick semi-circular flirt that sent the water flying over the shallow rim into the stream, he disclosed a layer of black sand on the bottom of the pan.  So thin was this layer that it was like a streak of paint.  He examined it closely.  In the midst of it was a tiny golden speck.  He dribbled a little water in over the depressed edge of the pan.  With a quick flirt he sent the water sluicing across the bottom, turning the grains of black sand over and over.  A second tiny golden speck rewarded his effort.

The washing had now become very fine—­fine beyond all need of ordinary placer-mining.  He worked the black sand, a small portion at a time, up the shallow rim of the pan.  Each small portion he examined sharply, so that his eyes saw every grain of it before he allowed it to slide over the edge and away.  Jealously, bit by bit, he let the black sand slip away.  A golden speck, no larger than a pin-point, appeared on the rim, and by his manipulation of the water it returned to the bottom of the pan.  And in such fashion another speck was disclosed, and another.  Great was his care of them.  Like a shepherd he herded his flock of golden specks so that not one should be lost.  At last, of the pan of dirt nothing remained but his golden herd.  He counted it, and then, after all his labor, sent it flying out of the pan with one final swirl of water.

But his blue eyes were shining with desire as he rose to his feet.  “Seven,” he muttered aloud, asserting the sum of the specks for which he had toiled so hard and which he had so wantonly thrown away.  “Seven,” he repeated, with the emphasis of one trying to impress a number on his memory.

He stood still a long while, surveying the hillside.  In his eyes was a curiosity, new-aroused and burning.  There was an exultance about his bearing and a keenness like that of a hunting animal catching the fresh scent of game.

He moved down the stream a few steps and took a second panful of dirt.

Again came the careful washing, the jealous herding of the golden specks, and the wantonness with which he sent them flying into the stream.

“Five,” he muttered, and repeated, “five.”

He could not forbear another survey of the hill before filling the pan farther down the stream.  His golden herds diminished.  “Four, three, two, two, one,” were his memory tabulations as he moved down the stream.  When but one speck of gold rewarded his washing, he stopped and built a fire of dry twigs.  Into this he thrust the gold-pan and burned it till it was blue-black.  He held up the pan and examined it critically.  Then he nodded approbation.  Against such a color-background he could defy the tiniest yellow speck to elude him.