"Ain't thawed two inches," he muttered, stooping down and groping with
his fingers in the wet muck. The blades of last year's grass had been
burned away, but he managed to gather up and tear away a handful of the
roots.
"Hell!"
"What's the matter?" Corliss asked.
"Hell!" he repeated in a passionless way, knocking the dirt-covered
roots against the pan.
Corliss went over and stooped to closer inspection. "Hold on!" he
cried, picking up two or three grimy bits of dirt and rubbing them with
his fingers. A bright yellow flashed forth.
"Hell!" the pocket-miner reiterated tonelessly. "First rattle out the
box. Begins at the grass roots and goes all the way down."
Head turned to the side and up, eyes closed, nostrils distended and
quivering, he rose suddenly to his feet and sniffed the air. Corliss
looked up wonderingly.
"Huh!" the pocket-miner grunted. Then he drew a deep breath. "Can't
you smell them oranges?"
CHAPTER XVI
The stampede to French Hill was on by the beginning of Christmas week.
Corliss and Bishop had been in no hurry to record for they looked the
ground over carefully before blazing their stakes, and let a few close
friends into the secret,--Harney, Welse, Trethaway, a Dutch _chechaquo_
who had forfeited both feet to the frost, a couple of the mounted
police, an old pal with whom Del had prospected through the Black Hills
Country, the washerwoman at the Forks, and last, and notably, Lucile.
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