“One hundred and seventy-five thousand two hundred and fifty dollars,” replied Tommy, with business-like gravity.

“Well,” said Johnson, after a deliberation commensurate with the magnitude of the transaction, “ef you win, call it a hundred and eighty thousand, round.  War’s the keerds?”

They were in an old tin box in a crevice of a rock above his head.  They were greasy and worn with service.  Johnson dealt, albeit his right hand was still uncertain,—­hovering, after dropping the cards, aimlessly about Tommy, and being only recalled by a strong nervous effort.  Yet, notwithstanding this incapacity for even honest manipulation, Mr. Johnson covertly turned a knave from the bottom of the pack with such shameless inefficiency and gratuitous unskilfulness, that even Tommy was obliged to cough and look elsewhere to hide his embarrassment.  Possibly for this reason the young gentleman was himself constrained, by way of correction, to add a valuable card to his own hand, over and above the number he legitimately held.

Nevertheless, the game was unexciting, and dragged listlessly.  Johnson won.  He recorded the fact and the amount with a stub of pencil and shaking fingers in wandering hieroglyphics all over a pocket diary.  Then there was a long pause, when Johnson slowly drew something from his pocket, and held it up before his companion.  It was apparently a dull red stone.

“Ef,” said Johnson, slowly, with his old look of simple cunning,—­“ef you happened to pick up sich a rock ez that, Tommy, what might you say it was?”

“Don’t know,” said Tommy.

“Mightn’t you say,” continued Johnson, cautiously, “that it was gold, or silver?”

“Neither,” said Tommy, promptly.

“Mightn’t you say it was quicksilver?  Mightn’t you say that ef thar was a friend o’ yourn ez knew war to go and turn out ten ton of it a day, and every ton worth two thousand dollars, that he had a soft thing, a very soft thing,—­allowin’, Tommy, that you used sich language, which you don’t?”

“But,” said the boy, coming to the point with great directness, “Do you know where to get it? have you struck it, Uncle Ben?”

Johnson looked carefully around.  “I hev, Tommy.  Listen.  I know whar thar’s cartloads of it.  But thar’s only one other specimen—­the mate to this yer—­thet’s above ground, and thet’s in ’Frisco.  Thar’s an agint comin’ up in a day or two to look into it.  I sent for him.  Eh?”

His bright, restless eyes were concentrated on Tommy’s face now, but the boy showed neither surprise nor interest.  Least of all did he betray any recollection of Bill’s ironical and gratuitous corroboration of this part of the story.

“Nobody knows it,” continued Johnson, in a nervous whisper,—­“nobody knows it but you and the agint in ‘Frisco.  The boys workin’ round yar passes by and sees the old man grubbin’ away, and no signs o’ color, not even rotten quartz; the boys loafin’ round the Mansion House sees the old man lyin’ round free in bar-rooms, and they laughs and sez, ’Played out,’ and spects nothin’.  Maybe ye think they spects suthin now, eh?” queried Johnson, suddenly, with a sharp look of suspicion.