In the fifth year of prosperity there drifted into camp two men, possessed of innocence, three mules, and a thousand dollars.  They retained the mules; and, it is to be presumed, at least a portion of the innocence.

The thousand dollars went to the purchase of the Lost Dog from Barney Fallan.  The Lost Dog consisted quite simply of a hole in the ground guarded by an excellent five stamp-mill.  The latter’s existence could only be explained by the incurable optimism of Barney Fallan—­certainly not by the contents of the hole in the ground.  To the older men of the camp it seemed a shame, for the newcomers were nice, fresh-cheeked, clear-eyed lads to whom everything was new and strange and wonderful, their enthusiasm was contagious, and their cheerful command of vernacular exceedingly heart-warming.  California John, then a man in his forties, tried to head off the deal.

“Look here, son,” said he to Gaynes.  “Don’t do it.  There’s nothin’ in it.  Take my word.”

“But Fallan’s got a good stamp-mill all ready for business, and the ledge——­”

“Son,” said California John, “every once in a while the Lord gets to experimentin’ makin’ brains for a new species of jackass, and when he runs out of donkeys to put ’em in——­”

“Meaning me?” demanded Gaynes, his fair skin turning a deep red.

“Not at all.  Meanin’ Barney Fallan.”

Nevertheless the Babes, as the Gaynes brothers were speedily nicknamed, paid over their good thousand for Barney’s worthless prospect with the imposing but ridiculous stamp-mill.  There they set cheerfully to work.  After a week’s desperate and clanking experiment they got the machinery under way and began to run rock through the crushers.

“It ain’t even ore!” expostulated California John.  “Why, son, it’s only country rock.  Go down on your shaft until you strike a pan test, anyway!  You’re wasting time and fuel and—­Oh, hell!” he broke off hopelessly at the sight of the two cherubic faces upturned respectful but unconvinced.

“But you never can tell where you will find gold,” broke in Jimmy, eagerly.  “That’s been proved over and over again.  I heard one fellow say once that they thought they’d never find gold in hornblende.  But they did.”

California John stumped home in indignant disgust.

“Damn little ijits!” he exploded.  “Pigheaded!  Stubborn as a pair of mules!” The recollection of the scrubbed red cheeks, the clear, puppy-dog, frank brown eyes, the close-curling brown hair, forced his lips to a wry grin.  “Just like I was at that age,” he admitted.  He sighed.  “Well, they’ll drop their little pile, of course.  The only ray of hope’s the experience that old Bible fellow had with them turkey buzzards—­or was it ravens?”

The Babes pecked away for about a month, full of tribulation and questions.  They seemed to depend almost equally on optimism and chance, in both of which they had supreme faith.  A huge horseshoe was tacked over the door of the stamp-mill.  Jimmy Gaynes always spat over his right shoulder before doing a day’s work.  They never walked under the short ladders leading to the hoppers.  Neither would they permit visitors to their shafts.  To California John and his friend Tibbetts they interposed scandalized objections.