This is the rim of the bench. Can't be
more'n a couple of feet down. All we want is indications; afterwards
we can tap in from the side."
As he talked, he started fires here and there on the uncovered spaces.
"But look here, Corliss, I want you to mind this ain't pocketin'. This
is just plain ordinary 'prentice work; but pocketin'"--he straightened
up his back and spoke reverently--"but pocketin' is the deepest science
and the finest art. Delicate to a hair's-breadth, hand and eye true
and steady as steel. When you've got to burn your pan blue-black twice
a day, and out of a shovelful of gravel wash down to the one wee speck
of flour gold,--why, that's washin', that's what it is. Tell you what,
I'd sooner follow a pocket than eat."
"And you would sooner fight than do either." Bishop stopped to
consider. He weighed himself with care equal to that of retaining the
one wee speck of flour gold. "No, I wouldn't, neither. I'd take
pocketin' in mine every time. It's as bad as dope; Corliss, sure. If
it once gets a-hold of you, you're a goner. You'll never shake it.
Look at me! And talk about pipe-dreams; they can't burn a candle
'longside of it."
He walked over and kicked one of the fires apart. Then he lifted the
pick, and the steel point drove in and stopped with a metallic clang,
as though brought up by solid cement.
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