“Mightn't you say,” continued Johnson, cautiously, “that it was gold, or silver?” “Neither,” said Tommy, promptly. “Mightn't you say it was quicksilver? Mightn't you say that ef thar was a friend o' yourn ez knew war to go and turn out ten ton of it a day, and every ton worth two thousand dollars, that he had a soft thing, a very soft thing,--allowin', Tommy, that you used sich language, which you don't?” “But,” said the boy, coming to the point with great directness, “DO you know where to get it? have you struck it, Uncle Ben?” Johnson looked carefully around. “I hev, Tommy. Listen. I know whar thar's cartloads of it. But thar's only one other specimen--the mate to this yer--thet's above ground, and thet's in 'Frisco. Thar's an agint comin' up in a day or two to look into it. I sent for him. Eh?” His bright, restless eyes were concentrated on Tommy's face now, but the boy showed neither surprise nor interest. Least of all did he betray any recollection of Bill's ironical and gratuitous corroboration of this part of the story. “Nobody knows it,” continued Johnson, in a nervous whisper,--“nobody knows it but you and the agint in 'Frisco. The boys workin' round yar passes by and sees the old man grubbin' away, and no signs o' color, not even rotten quartz; the boys loafin' round the Mansion House sees the old man lyin' round free in bar-rooms, and they laughs and sez, 'Played out,' and spects nothin'. Maybe ye think they spects suthin now, eh?” queried Johnson, suddenly, with a sharp look of suspicion. Tommy looked up, shook his head, threw a stone at a passing rabbit, but did not reply. “When I fust set eyes on you, Tommy,” continued Johnson, apparently reassured, “the fust day you kem and pumped for me, an entire stranger, and hevin no call to do it, I sez, 'Johnson, Johnson,' sez I,' yer's a boy you kin trust. Yer's a boy that won't play you; yer's a chap that's white and square,'--white and square, Tommy: them's the very words I used.” He paused for a moment, and then went on in a confidential whisper, “'You want capital, Johnson,' sez I, 'to develop your resources, and you want a pardner. Capital you can send for, but your pardner, Johnson,--your pardner is right yer. And his name, it is Tommy Islington.' Them's the very words I used.” He stopped and chafed his clammy hands upon his knees. “It's six months ago sens I made you my pardner. Thar ain't a lick I've struck sens then, Tommy, thar ain't a han'ful o' yearth I've washed, thar ain't a shovelful o' rock I've turned over, but I tho't o' you. 'Share, and share alike,' sez I. When I wrote to my agint, I wrote ekal for my pardner, Tommy Islington, he hevin no call to know ef the same was man or boy.”