“It’s bad luck to let another man in your shaft!” cried George.  “I’m no high-brow on this mining proposition, but I know enough for that.”

“Bad as playing opposite a cross-eyed man,” said Jimmy.

“Or holding Jacks full on Eights,” supplemented George, conclusively.

“You’re about as wise as a treeful of owls,” said California John, sarcastically.  “But, Lord love you, I ain’t cherishin’ any very burnin’ ambition to crawl down your snake hole.”

The Babes used up their provisions; they went about as far as they could on credit; they harrowed the feelings of the community—­and then, in a very mild way, they struck it.  Together they drifted down the single street of the camp, arm in arm, an elaborate nonchalance steadying their steps.  Near the horse trough they paused.

“Gold,” said Jimmy, oracularly, to George, “is where you find it.”

“Likewise horse sense,” quoth George.

Whereupon they whooped wildly and descended on the astonished group.  To it they exhibited yellow dust to the value of an hundred dollars.  “And more where that came from,” said they.

“What kind of rock did you find it in?” demanded Tibbetts, after he had recovered his breath from the youngsters’ enthusiastic man-handling.

“Oh, a kind of red, pasty-looking rock,” said they.

“Show us,” demanded the miners.

“What?” cried Jimmy, astounded, “and give Old Man Luck the backhand slap just when he’s decided to buy a corner lot in the Gaynes Addition?  Not on your saccharine existence!”

“But we’ll show you some more of this to-morrow Q.M.,” said George.

They bought drinks all round, and paid their various bills, and departed again feverishly to the Lost Dog whence rose smoke and clankings.  And next day, sure enough, they left their work just long enough to exhibit another respectable little clean-up of fifty dollars or so.

“And we’re just getting into it!” said George, triumphantly.

California John and all the rest of his good friends rejoiced exceedingly and genuinely.  They liked the Babes.  The little strike of the Lost Dog quite overshadowed in importance the fact that old man Bright’s “Clarice” had run into a fabulously rich pocket.

The end of the month drew near.  The Lost Dog had produced nearly eight hundred dollars.  The Babes waxed important and talked largely of their moneyed interests.

“I think,” said Jimmy, importantly, “that we will decide to keep three hundred dollars to boost the game; and nail down the rest where moths won’t corrupt.  Where do you fellows salt your surplus, anyway?”

“There’s an express goes out pretty soon,” someone explained, “with the clean-up of the Clarice.  We send our dust out with that; and I reckon you can fix it with Bright.”