Nate did not reply.  He was absorbed in a project that had come into his head as his friend talked, and the two dissimilar trains of thought combined in a mental mosaic that would have amazed Birt Dicey.

“Ye see,” Birt presently continued, “I dunno when I kin git shet o’ the tanyard this year.  Old Jube Perkins ’lows ez he air mighty busy ‘bout’n them hides an’ sech, an’ he wants me ter holp around ginerally.  He say ef I do mo’ work’n I owes him, he’ll make that straight with my mother.  An’ he declares fur true ef I don’t holp him at this junctry, when he needs me, he won’t hire his mule to my mother nex’ spring; an’ ye know it won’t do fur we-uns ter resk the corn-crap an’ gyarden truck with sech a pack o’ chill’n ter vittle ez we-uns hev got at our house.”

Nate deduced an unexpected conclusion.  “Ye oughter gin me more’n haffen the make,” he said. “’Kase ef ’twarn’t fur me, ye couldn’t git none.  An’ ef ye don’t say two thurds, I’ll tell every critter on the mounting an’ they’ll be grabblin’ in yer gold mine d’rec’ly.”

“Ye dunno whar it is,” said Birt, quietly.

If a sudden jet from the cold mountain torrent, that rioted through the wilderness down the ravine hard by, had been dashed into Nate’s thin, sharp face, he could not have cooled more abruptly.  The change almost took his breath away.

“I don’t mean that, nuther,” he gasped with politic penitence, “kase I hev promised not ter tell.  I dunno whether I kin holp nohow.  I hev got ter do my sheer o’ work at home; we ain’t through pullin’ fodder off’n our late corn yit.”

Birt looked at him in silent surprise.

Nate was older than his friend by several years.  He was of an unruly and insubordinate temper, and did as little work as he pleased at home.  He often remarked that he would like to see who could make him do what he had no mind to do.

“Mebbe old Jube wouldn’t want me round ’bout,” he suggested.

“Waal,” said Birt, eager again to detail his plans, “he ’lowed when I axed him this mornin’ ez he’d be willin’ ef I could trade with another boy ter take my place wunst in a while.”

Nate affected to meditate on this view of the question.  “But it will be toler’ble fur away fur me ter go prowlin’ in the woods, a-huntin’ fur gold, an’ our fodder jes’ a-sufferin’ ter be pulled.  Ef the spot air fur off, I can’t come an’ I won’t, not fur haffen the make.”

“’T ain’t fur off at all—­scant haffen mile,” replied unwary Birt, anxious to convince.  “It air jes’ yander nigh that thar salt lick down the ravine.  I marks the spot by a bowlder—­biggest bowlder I ever see—­on the slope o’ the mounting.”

The instant this revelation passed his lips, regret seized him.  “But ye ain’t ter go thar ’thout me, ye onderstand, till we begins our work.”

“I ain’t wantin’ ter go,” Nate protested.  “I ain’t sati’fied in my mind whether I’ll ondertake ter holp or no.  That pullin’ fodder ez I hev got ter do sets mighty heavy on my stomach.”