“Of all the tarnal idiots,” he was saying; “I never seed a man so sot in his ways.  Tad, ain’t ye even goin’ to peek inside?”

“No, Ben, not to-day.  Perhaps some day,” returned the old prospector, “and perhaps never.”

Willis jumped to his feet.  “Not to-day, Tad?  Not to-day?  Do you mean you aren’t going into the mine.  Well, I am, even if you aren’t.  I don’t leave this spot until I see the inside for myself.  Give me the key.  Ham and I will go in alone.”

“O, I wish you wouldn’t.  It’s dangerous, and I am sure the story of the gold is only a notion.  Your father was out of his mind when he died, and the gold he told about was just one of his dreams.  I worked with him that day, and I saw no special signs of gold.”

“Yes, but that varmit, Williams, has seed signs,” muttered Ben.  “He went in an’ brought out samples; he knows, an’ you only think you do.”

Willis held out his hand for the key, and Ben urged him on.  Tad looked far away over the snowy hills, then up the quiet valley, so peaceful in its white robes, and at last down to the little cabin below.  There his gaze rested.

“My, but it hardly seems fourteen years since I built that shanty,” he said.  “How happy I was then!  Fourteen years brings strange things into a man’s life.  My boy, I hope you will never get the gold fever.  Steer clear of it.”

“But Tad, I have it already,” replied Willis, “and I am following where it leads me.”

Tad looked at him, and a strange, sad expression came to his face.

“How much you talk like your father, and you’re so like him, too!  I’m sorry.”

He reached deep into his trousers’ pocket, pulled out the key, then got slowly to his feet.  Twice he changed his mind; but Willis persisted, and at last he yielded.  The new lock opened easily, but not so the great log door.  Its hinges were rusted from the storms of many seasons.  As Willis pulled hard, the old hinges groaned, as if regretting that they were to be disturbed after so long a rest.  As the door swung back, and the mouth of the tunnel was disclosed, Tad caught Willis by the arm and held him.  “Wait, my boy,” he said, “you must let the old place air out.  Remember, it has been bottled up a long time.  I’ll wager a light won’t even burn in there just now.”

“Have you a candle?” asked Willis, his tone betraying his excitement.

“I’ll get some,” volunteered Ham, and off he started down the trail for the cabin.

The tunnel was a round, irregular hole a little higher than a man’s head, and in width it varied with the width of the dyke.  The floor had been covered with rough-hewn planks to make the pushing of the loaded wheelbarrows easier.  These old planks were black and wet, but still quite sound.  As they stood, waiting for Ham to return, Tad told Willis something more of the early history of the mine: