ived the
life of an Indian for months and months together, and I declare to you,
I'm as jolly and enthusiastic _now_ as ever I was."

"That may be quite true," observed Maxton, "seeing that it is possible
you may have never been jolly or enthusiastic at all; but even taking
your words as you mean them to be understood, they only tend to enforce
what I have said, for, you know, the exception proves the rule."

"Bah! you sophisticator," ejaculated Tom, again inspecting the contents
of the pot.

"Och, let him spake, an' be aisy," remarked Larry, with a look of
extreme satisfaction on his countenance; "we're in the navelty an'
excitement stage o' life just now, an faix we'll kape it up as long as
we can. Hand me a cinder, Bill Jones, an' don't look as if ye wos
meditatin' wot to say, for ye know that ye can't say nothin'."

Bill took no further notice of this remark than to lift a glowing piece
of charcoal from the fire with his fingers, as deliberately as if they
were made of iron, and hand it to O'Neil, who received it in the same
cool manner, and relighted his pipe therewith.

"It strikes me we shall require all our jollity and enthusiasm to keep
up our spirits, if we don't reach the diggings to-morrow," said Ned
Sinton, as he busied himself in polishing the blade of a superb
hunting-knife, which had been presented to him by a few college friends
at parting; "you all know that our funds are exhausted, and it's awkward
to arrive at a ranche without a dollar to pay for a meal--still more
awkward to be compelled to encamp beside a ranche and unpack our own
provisions, especially if it should chance to be a wet night. Do you
think we shall manage to reach the diggings to-morrow, Maxton?"

"I am certain of it. Twelve miles will bring us to Little Creek, as it
is called, where we can begin to take initiative lessons in
gold-washing. In fact, the ground we stand on, I have not a doubt, has
much gold in it. But we have not the means of washing it yet."

Larry O'Neil caught his breath on hearing this statement. "D'ye mane to
tell me," he said, slowly and with emphasis, "that I'm maybe sittin' at
this minute on the top o' rale goold?"

"You may be," answered Maxton, laughing.

"W'en ye don't know," remarked Bill Jones, sententiously, removing the
pipe from his lips, and looking fixedly at his messmate, "W'en ye don't
know _wot's_ under ye, nor the coorse o' nature, w'ich is always more or
less a-doin' things oncomm