"But all is not gold that glitters," said Sir Humphrey, laughing. "Not by a long way," said Briscoe; "but that is metal?" "Certainly." "It is yellow?" "Yes," said Sir Humphrey. "Then it is gold." "Why isn't it iron pyrites--the salt of iron and sulphur?" "Because if it had been it would have broken up into little bits: you could have ground it into dust." "So you could this," said Brace. "Impossible. You could beat it out into a thin sheet which you could blow away. That's gold, sir. I had two years' prospecting for metals and precious stones up in the Rockies, with a first-class mineralogist, and, without bragging, I think I know what I'm saying. This river's full of rich metallic gold, I'm sure of that." "I daresay you are," said Sir Humphrey: "only if this sand-spit is ten times as rich in gold I'm not going to stay here any longer. We shall be eaten up." "Yes," said Brace, "the little wretches! They're almost as bad as the tiny fish." "What, these sand-flies?" said Briscoe, slapping his face and arms. "Yes, they are a pretty good nuisance. Let's get ashore towards the fire--the smoke will soon make them drift." "Well, I've learned something about gold to-day," said Brace, as they picked their way back through the shallows to the bank of the river; "but oughtn't we to mark this place down so that it should be ready for the next gold-seekers?" "It wants no marking down," replied Briscoe: "the place will tell its own tale to anyone hunting for it." And he tossed the sand out of the pans, gave them a rinse, and stepped ashore. In another hour the excellent meal prepared by Dan had been enjoyed, and the regular preparations were made for passing the night on board; but in a very short time everyone had come to the conclusion that it would be impossible to sleep in the neighbourhood of the sand-spits, on account of the myriads of tiny sandflies, whose poisonous bites were raising itching bumps and threatening to close the eyes of all who were exposed to them. "It's getting too late to drift down the river a little way," said Lynton, "and, besides, it wouldn't be safe." "And we should only be getting out of Scylla into Charybdis," said Sir Humphrey. "I should like to be buried in sand up to my nose," cried Brace, whose face was getting terribly swelled. "Strikes me," said Briscoe, "that we'd better go ashore and sleep there after making up a good smother on the fire with green stuff that will smoke well. There's plenty about." This was agreed to unanimously after an announcement from the mate that, if they were to spend the night ashore, a proper watch would have to be set and kept.