We panned that dirt clumsily and hastily enough; and undoubtedly lost much valuable sand overside; but we ended each with a string of colour. We crowded together comparing our "pans." Then we went crazy. I suppose we had about a quarter of a dollar's worth of gold between us, but that was not the point. The long journey with all its hardships and adventures, the toil, the uncertainty, the hopes, the disappointments and reactions had at last their visible tangible conclusion. The tiny flecks of gold were a symbol. We yapped aloud, we kicked up our heels, we shook hands, we finally joined hands and danced around and around. From all sides the miners came running up, dropping their tools with a clatter. We were assailed by a chorus of eager cries. "What is it, boys?" "A strike?" "Whereabouts is your claim?" "Is it 'flour' or 'flake'?" "Let's see!" They crowded around in a dense mob, and those nearest jostled to get a glimpse of our pans. Suddenly sobered by this interest in our doings, we would have edged away could we have got hold of our implements. "Wall, I'll be durned!" snorted a tall state of Maine man in disgust. "This ain't no strike! This is an insane asylum." The news slowly penetrated the crowd. A roar of laughter went up. Most of the men were hugely amused; but some few were so disgusted at having been fooled that they were almost inclined to take it as a personal affront that we had not made the expected "strike." "You'd think they was a bunch of confounded Keskydees," growled one of them. The miners slowly dispersed, returning to their own diggings. Somewhat red-faced, and very silent, we gathered up our pans and slunk back to the claim. Our neighbour stuck his head out of his hole. He alone had not joined the stampede in our direction. "How do you like being popular heroes?" he grinned. Johnny made as though to shy a rock at him, whereupon he ducked below ground. However, our spirits soon recovered. We dumped the black sand into a little sack we had brought for the purpose. It made quite an appreciable bulge in that sack. We did not stop to realize that most of the bulge was sack and sand, and mighty little of it gold. It was something tangible and valuable; and we were filled with a tremendous desire to add to its bulk. We worked with entire absorption, quite oblivious to all that was going on about us. It was only by accident that Yank looked up at last, so I do not know how long Don Gaspar had been there. "Will you look at that!" cried Yank. Don Gaspar, still in his embroidered boots, his crimson velvet breeches, his white linen, and his sombrero, but without the blue and silver jacket, was busily wielding a pickaxe a hundred feet or so away. His companion, or servant, was doing the heavier shovel work. "Why, oh, why!" breathed Johnny at last, "do you suppose, if he _must_ mine, he doesn't buy himself a suit of dungarees or a flannel shirt?"