"Now don't be a fool, Paley," impatiently. "The days are passed for such melo-dramatic visions as that. We will live to see a great many to-morrows. It is nothing but a very stale trick got up to frighten us from our work. Somebody has got wind of our discovery, and takes this plan to drive us away. But I, for one, don't scare worth a cent! And as first move--before it rains--I'm going to see what sort of track that _ghost_ left behind him. The sand out yonder is soft, and will retain a footprint. Come--you'll admit that a _spirit_--even though it assumes the guise of a burning skeleton--can not leave a natural footprint? Very well. If I do not find the tracks of a _man_ out yonder, I'll agree to believe in your view, and at once make my will, provided you promise the same. If the track _is_ there you'll give up those superstitious ideas?" "Yes," was the reply given by both Duplin and Wythe. Jack said no more, but set about arranging a torch in order to settle the question once for all. Meantime Wythe had directed Duplin's attention to something not far from the shanty, apparently lying upon the ground. This was a small point of flame, flickering vividly, now larger, now smaller. It was near where the skeleton had stood. Tyrrel soon emerged, holding the torch before him, but as he advanced, the point of flame grew dim, and then vanished entirely. Bending low down, he began closely scanning the ground, while Duplin and Wythe intently watched his motions. "You're cornered now, boys," he said aloud, with a laugh, rising erect. "Come out here and own up that you've been silly fools. Here are the tracks as plain and clear as mud." Beginning to feel ashamed of their exhibition, the two soon joined Tyrrel, and kneeling, slowly scanned the ground. As Jack had said, the sand was soft, and easily retained the imprint of a human foot. And such an imprint lay before them, plain and unmistakable. Even Duplin could no longer doubt that all this had been the work of a cunning hand, though by no means a spirit. "And see," laughed Jack, "here's a memento of our ghostly visitor. A finger-joint that one of my bullets has broken." "That was what we saw lying here. Hold it in the dark, Jack--yes, that is it," muttered Wythe, as the bone again showed the flickering light. "And there comes the rain--but first, I'm going to have the measure of this foot. I think I owe the rascal that made it a sound thrashing, and if we ever meet, he'll get it, or my name's not Jack Tyrrel!" As the storm burst, the gold-hunters regained their shelter, and composed themselves as comfortably as circumstances would admit. Knowing that they were in for a drenching, they only cared to keep their weapons and ammunition dry.