“There! don’t let us scold him,” said George, “I am sure he has lost a relation, or maybe a dear friend; anyway I hope it is not his sweetheart—­poor Jacky.  Well, Jacky!  I am glad you have washed your face, now I know you again.  You can’t think how much better you look in your own face than painted up in that unreasonable way, like-like-like-I dono-what-all.”

“Like something between a devil and a rainbow,” suggested Robinson.

“But what is wrong?” asked George, kindly.  “I am almost afraid to ask, though!”

Encouraged by the tone of sympathy, the afflicted chief pointed to his face, sighed, and said: 

“Kalingalunga paint war, and now Kalingalunga wash um face and not kill anybody first.  Kalingalunga Jacky again, and show your white place in um hill a good deal soon.”

And the amiable heathen cleared up a little at the prospect of serving George, whom he loved—­aboriginally.

Jem remained with the natives upon some frivolous pretense.  His real hope was to catch the ruffian whom he secretly believed to be still in the wood.  “He is like enough to creep out this way,” thought Jem, “and then—­won’t I nail him!”

In half an hour they were standing under the spot whose existence Robinson had so often doubted.

“Well, George, you painted it true.  It really is a river of quartz running between those two black rocks.  And that you think is the home of the gold, eh?”

“Well, I do.  Look here, Tom! look at this great large heap of quartz bowlders, all of different sizes; they have all rolled down here out of that river of quartz.”

“Why, of course they have! who doubts that?”

“Many is the time I have sat on that green mound where Jacky is sitting now, and eaten my bread and cheese.”

“I dare say! but what has that to do with it? what are we to do?  Are we to go up the rock and peck into that mass of quartz?”

“Well, I think it is worth while.”

“Why, it would be like biting a piece out of the world!  Look here, Master George, we can put your notion about the home of the gold to the test without all that trouble.”

“As how?”

“You own all these quartz stones rolled out of yon river; if so, they are samples of it.  Ten thousand quartz stones is quite sample enough, so begin and turn them all over, examine them—­break them if you like.  If we find but a speck of gold in one of them I’ll believe that quartz river is gold’s home—­if not, it is all humbug!”

George pulled a wry face; he found himself pinned to his own theory.

“Well,” said he, “I own the sample tells us what is in the barn; so now I am vexed for bringing you here.”

“Now we are here, give it a fair trial; let us set to and break every bowlder in the thundering heap.”

They went to work and picked the quartz bowlders; full two hours they worked, and by this time they had made a considerable heap of broken quartz; it glittered in the sun, but it glittered white, not a speck of yellow came to light.