There was a cotton compress near by, with its vast sheds and platforms, and Pole looked at it steadily. He thrust his hand into his pants pocket and kept it there for a full minute. Then he shook his head, drew out his hand, and said: “I reckon I won't bother you to-day, Mr. Craig. Some day I 'll come in town an' tell you, but--” Pole looked at the sun. “I reckon I'd better be goin'.” “Hold on,” Craig caught Pole's arm. The exbanker was a natural man. Despite his recent troubles, he had his share of curiosity, and Pole's manner and words had roused it to unwonted activity. “Hold on,” he said. “What's your hurry? I've got time to spare if you have.” Pole hung his head for a moment in silence, then he looked the old man in the face. “Mr. Craig,” he began, in even a lower voice, “do you reckon thar's any gold in them mountains?” Pole nodded to the blue wave in the east. Craig was standing near a bale of cotton and he sat down on it, first parting the tails of his long, black coat. “I don't know; there might be,” he said, deeply interested, and yet trying to appear indifferent. “There is plenty of it in the same range further down about Dalonega.” Pole had his hand in the right pocket of his rough jean trousers. “Is thar anybody in this town that could tell a piece o' gold ef they seed it?” he asked. “Oh, a good many, I reckon,” said Craig, a steely beam of excitement in his unsteady eye. “I can, myself. I spent two years in the gold-mines of California when I was a young man.” “You don't say! I never knowed that.” Pole had really heard of that fact, but his face was straight. He had managed to throw into it a most wonderful blending of fear and over-cautiousness. “Oh yes; I've had a good deal of experience in such things.” “You don't say!” Pole was looking towards the compress again. Craig laughed out suddenly, and put his hand on Pole's shoulder with a friendly, downward stroke. “You can trust me, Baker,” he said, persuasively, “and it may be that I could be of assistance to you.” There was something like an actual tremor of agitation in Pole's rough hand as he drew his little nugget from its resting-place at the bottom of his pocket. With a deep, indrawn breath, he handed it to Craig. “Is that thar little lump gold or not?” he asked. Craig started visibly as his eyes fell on the piece of gold. But he took it indifferently, and examined it closely. “Where did you run across that?” he asked. “I want to know ef it's the puore thing,” answered Pole. Craig made another examination, obviously to decide on the method he would apply to a situation that claimed all his interest. “I think it is,” he said; “in fact, I know it is.” Pole took it eagerly, thrust it back into his pocket, and said: “Mr. Craig, I know whar thar's a vein o' that stuff twenty yards thick, runnin' clean through a mountain.” “You do!” Craig actually paled under his suppressed excitement.