‘If there’s a large family o’ these we’re made men,’ said Burton, fondling the nugget.

’Unless some of Douglas’s men take a fancy to them when we’ve unearthed them.’

‘Or Solo chips in an’ lifts the pile.  We must keep it dark till this field sobers up a bit.’

The tub of dirt taken from the bottom of their hole—­that is, the deepest part of the strata of alluvial deposit, to which the best of the gold almost in variably gravitates—­was extremely rich.  The dregs in the tub, after all the clay and dirt had been washed away, blazed with coarse pieces, and Done carried away at least five hundred pounds’ worth in nuggets wrapped in his gray jumper.  The coarse gold was picked out of the washed gravel, and then the remainder of the stuff was put through the cradle, the slides of which captured and retained the smaller gold, with a certain amount of sand, and this was washed again in the tin dish, the last grains of base material being got rid of by shaking the gold on a sheet of paper after it had been thoroughly dried, and blowing with the mouth, a process at which the diggers became so expert that very little of even the finest gold-dust was lost in the operation.

The mates finished their third day’s work on Jim Crow, wet to the hips, smeared from top to toe with yellow clay, dog-weary, but quite jubilant.  They were as well satisfied with their next day’s work, and the next.  They had succeeded in keeping the knowledge of their big find to themselves; but returning to their camp one night about a week later, Done was amazed to find the earthen floor of the tent dug up to a depth of about a foot.  Burton grinned.

‘Someone’s bottomed a shicer to-night,’ he said.

‘What’s the meaning of this?’ asked Done.

’We’ve had a little visit from some damn scoundrel who thought we’d buried our gold here.  Must ‘a’ taken us for a pair o’ Johnnie-come-latelies.’

At that moment a shot rang out on the night air, and sounds of angry voices and scuffling came from the direction of the Peetrees’ tent.

‘By the Lord Harry, they’ve nabbed him!’ said Mike.  ‘Come along!’

They found Con Peetree holding a man down with a persuasive revolver, while Harry, with a burning match sheltered in his palm, examined the captive.

‘Cot him diggin’ in our tent.  He broke ‘way, but I’ve winged him,’ said Harry.

‘He gave us a look in, too,’ said Mike.

‘Lose any stuff?’

‘Not a colour.’

’Same here; but we can’t let him go scot-free.  That kink in the calf counts for nothing, and handin’ him over to the beaks means too much worry.  Here, give’s a light, Burton.’

Mike struck a match, and, taking the thief by the ear, Harry Peetree drew a knife.

‘Good God!’ cried Jim, ‘you don’t mean to—­’ Jim’s intervention was too late to help the prostrate man; Peetree had already slashed off the lobe of his left ear.  He threw the fragment in the man’s face.