“An’ so ye think,” continued the old man, warming to the liquor “that I’m touched i’ the head wi’ my talk of a hundred, an’ two hundred dollars to the pan?” He paused and glared a challenge into the faces of the five men grouped about him. Camillo Bill laughed: “No, no, nothin’ like that, Gordon! Only if this here camp ever feels the need of a booster’s club, I’ll sure nominate you for the first president of it.” “You said we was goin’ to see two hundred dollars to the pan before we struck bed rock,” reminded Moosehide Charlie, “What’s she goin’ to run when we do hit the bottom?” “Ye’ll see four and five hundred dollars weighed from a single pan when bed rock is reached,” replied Gordon, “Ye think I’m crazy--but, wait an’ see.” “Mebbe bed rock will be a solid floor of gold, an’ we can just blast her out in chunks,” suggested Stoell, the gambler. “It’ll sure be hell on the mahogany when the boys get to tossin’ them big chunks across the bar.” “Whoopie!” cried Bettles, “Five hundred to the pan? I sure feel rich! Come on, boys, liquor up so I can spend some of this here fabulous wealth! You’ll do me a favor by helpin’ me lighten my sack. I feel weighted down with gold, an’ that’s a hell of a fix to be in.” “It’s my turn to buy,” interrupted Camillo Bill, “Here you, Jack, shove out a bottle! Hold on!” he cried in mock solicitude, as the bottle thumped down on the bar. “You’ll sure have to learn to set them glasses an’ bottles down careful. Old Man Gordon, here, has got gold comin’ in chunks so big you’ll have to cover yer bar with boiler plate to keep her from wearin’ out.” “Have yer fun, ye addle pates!” grinned the old man, “But the days ain’t far off when ye’ll be sayin’ how Old Man Gordon was the only one that could see ahead of his nose. An’ speakin’ of b’iler plate, I wish I had a good b’iler here right now.” Shouts of laughter greeted the announcement. “Give him a boiler for his, Jack. It’s my treat!” snickered Camillo Bill. “He’s goin’ to melt ice an’ run a winter flume.” “He’s goin’ to rig a steam h’stin’ derrick to lift them big chunks of gold out of his shaft.” “Borrow the boiler out of the steamboat fer the winter. They won’t need it till spring.” “Dogs can’t pull no such output of gold, nohow. He’s figgerin’ on startin’ a steam sled line out to his claim.” And so it went, one preposterous suggestion followed by a more preposterous one. And in the centre of the group, Old Stuart Gordon poured his drink in owlish solemnity, and let them rave. “I believe they’re jokin’ at you, Gordon,” said Bettles, with solemn countenance, “But, layin’ jokes aside, what in thunder do you want of a boiler?”