I got down inty the ground, an’ I seen for meself what I got there—­an’ whin I found out, my gorry, I didn’t need no buke t’ tell me was she wort’ the powder I’d put inty ‘er.  An’ them that made their millions outy their mines, they didn’t go walkin’ around wit’ a buke in their hands!  My gorry, they hired jackasses like me an’ Mike here t’ dig fer all they wanted t’ know about.

“And if ye want to find out what’s there in yer claim, I’d advise ye t’ throw away yer buke, young feller, an’ git busy wit’ yer two hands, an’ ye’ll be like t’ know a dom sight more than wit’ all yer readin’.  An’ if ye like to bring me a sample of what ye git, I’ll be the wan t’ tell ye by sight what ye have, and I don’t need no buke t’ tell it by nayther.”

Whereat Mike, who was silly from being struck on the head with a railroad tie somewhere down the long trail of years behind him, gulped his lean Adam’s apple into a laugh, and began to gobble a long, rambling tale about a feller he knew once in Minnesota who could locate mines with a crooked stick, and wherever he pinted the stick you could dig....

Murphy sat down upon him then—­figuratively speaking—­and reminded Mike that they were not talking about crooked sticks ner no kind of sticks, ner they didn’t give a dom what happened in Minnesota fifty year ago—­if it ever had happened, which Murphy doubted.  So Mike left his story in the middle and went off to the water jug under a stubby cedar, walking bowlegged and swinging his arms limply, palms turned backward, and muttering to himself as he went.

“A-ah, there goes a liar if ever there was one—­him and his crooked sthick!” Murphy brought out a plug of tobacco the length of his hand and pried off a corner with his teeth.  “Mebby it was a railroad tie, I dunno, that give him the dint in his head where he should have brains—­but I misdoubt me if iver there was more than the prospect of a hole there, and niver a color to pay fer the diggin’.”  He looked at the professor and winked prodigiously, though Mike was out of earshot.  “Him an’ his crooked sthick!” he snorted, nudging the professor with his elbow. “’S fer me, I’d a dom sight ruther go be yer buke, young feller—­and more I cannot say than thot.”

The professor went back to his ledge on the hillside and began to peck away with his pick, getting a sample for Murphy to look at.  He rather liked Murphy, who had addressed him as young feller—­a term sweet to the ears of any man when he had passed forty-five and was still going.  By George! an old miner like Murphy ought to know a fair prospect when he saw it!  The professor hoped that he might really find gold on his claim.  Gold would not lessen the timber value, and it would magnify the profits.  They expected to make somewhere near six thousand dollars off each twenty acres; perhaps more, since they were noble trees and good, honest pine that brought the best price from the mills.  Six thousand dollars was worth while, certainly; but think of the fortune if they could really find gold.  He would have a more honest right to the claim, then.  He wondered what Murphy thought of the shaft he was sinking over there, where Fred had perfunctorily broken through the leaf mold with a “prospect” hole, and had ordered Murphy and Mike to dig to bed-rock, and stop when they had the assessment work finished.