His first pan of the morning washed out over two dollars in coarse gold.  It was from the centre of the “V.”  To either side the diminution in the values of the pans was swift.  His lines of cross-cutting holes were growing very short.  The converging sides of the inverted “V” were only a few yards apart.  Their meeting-point was only a few yards above him.  But the pay-streak was dipping deeper and deeper into the earth.  By early afternoon he was sinking the test-holes five feet before the pans could show the gold-trace.

For that matter, the gold-trace had become something more than a trace; it was a placer mine in itself, and the man resolved to come back after he had found the pocket and work over the ground.  But the increasing richness of the pans began to worry him.  By late afternoon the worth of the pans had grown to three and four dollars.  The man scratched his head perplexedly and looked a few feet up the hill at the manzanita bush that marked approximately the apex of the “V.”  He nodded his head and said oracularly: 

“It’s one o’ two things, Bill:  one o’ two things.  Either Mr. Pocket’s spilled himself all out an’ down the hill, or else Mr. Pocket’s so rich you maybe won’t be able to carry him all away with you.  And that’d be an awful shame, wouldn’t it, now?” He chuckled at contemplation of so pleasant a dilemma.

Nightfall found him by the edge of the stream, his eyes wrestling with the gathering darkness over the washing of a five-dollar pan.

“Wisht I had an electric light to go on working,” he said.

He found sleep difficult that night.  Many times he composed himself and closed his eyes for slumber to overtake him; but his blood pounded with too strong desire, and as many times his eyes opened and he murmured wearily, “Wisht it was sun-up.”

Sleep came to him in the end, but his eyes were open with the first paling of the stars, and the gray of dawn caught him with breakfast finished and climbing the hillside in the direction of the secret abiding-place of Mr. Pocket.

The first cross-cut the man made, there was space for only three holes, so narrow had become the pay-streak and so close was he to the fountainhead of the golden stream he had been following for four days.

“Be ca’m, Bill; be ca’m,” he admonished himself, as he broke ground for the final hole where the sides of the “V” had at last come together in a point.

“I’ve got the almighty cinch on you, Mr. Pocket, an’ you can’t lose me,” he said many times as he sank the hole deeper and deeper.

Four feet, five feet, six feet, he dug his way down into the earth.  The digging grew harder.  His pick grated on broken rock.  He examined the rock.  “Rotten quartz,” was his conclusion as, with the shovel, he cleared the bottom of the hole of loose dirt.  He attacked the crumbling quartz with the pick, bursting the disintegrating rock asunder with every stroke.