“Bones?” faltered Birt.

“Bones,” reiterated the professor solemnly.

Did his spectacles twinkle?

Birt stood silent, vaguely wondering what his mother would think of “bones.”  Presently the professor, seeing that the boy was not likely to ask amusing questions, explained.

He informed Birt that in the neighborhood of salt licks—­“saline quagmires” he called them—­were often found the remains of animals of an extinct species, which are of great value to science.  He gave Birt the extremely long name of these animals, and descanted upon such conditions of their existence as is known, much of which Birt did not understand.  Although this fact was very apparent, it did not in the least affect the professor’s ardor in the theme.  He was in the habit of talking of these things to boys who did not understand, and alack! to boys who did not want to understand.

One point, however, he made very clear.  With the hope of some such “find,” he was anxious to investigate this particular lick,—­about which indeed he had heard a vague tradition of a “big bone” discovery, such as is common to similar localities in this region,—­ and for this purpose he proposed to furnish the science and the fifty cents per diem, and earnestly desired that some one else should furnish the muscle.

He was accustomed to think much more rapidly than the men with whom Birt was associated, and his briskness in arranging the matter had an incongruous suggestion of the giddiness of youth.  He said that he would go home with Birt to fetch the spade, and while there he could settle the terms with the boy’s mother, and then they could get to work.

He started off at a dapper gait up the deer-path, while Birt, with his rifle on his shoulder, followed.

A sudden thought struck Birt.  He stopped short.

“Now I dunno which side o’ that thar lick Nate Griggs’s line runs on,” he remarked.

“Never mind,” said the professor, waving away objections with airy efficiency; “I shall first secure the consent of the owner of the land.”

Birt cogitated for a moment.  “Nate Griggs ain’t goin’ ter gin his cornsent ter nobody ter dig ennywhar down the ravine, ef it air inside o’ his lines,” he said confidently, “’kase I—­’kase he—­ leastwise, ‘kase gold hev been fund hyar lately, an’ he hev entered the land.”

The professor stopped short in the path.

“Gold!” he ejaculated.  “Gold!”

Was there a vibration of incredulity in his voice?

Birt remembered all at once the specimens which he had picked up that memorable evening, down the ravine, when he shot the red fox.  Here they still were in his pocket.  They showed lustrous, metallic, yellow gleams as he placed them carefully in the old man’s outstretched hand, telling how he came by them, of his mistaken confidence, the betrayed trust, and ending by pointing at the group of gold-seekers, microscopic in the distance on the opposite slope.