The railroad division superintendent, a well-fed and easy-going man, came down from his office on the second floor of the station building and saw Pop sitting on a baggage-truck. The old negro, forgetful of the clod in his coat-tail pocket, had felt it when he sat down. He had taken it out of his pocket and was now casually looking at it as he held it in his hand. “Hello, Pop!” said the division superintendent, upon whose hand time was hanging heavily. “What have you there?” “Doan' know, Mistah Monroe. Doan' know, sah. Looks like jes' a chunk o' mud.” He held out the clod to Mr. Monroe. The spectacle of the division superintendent talking to the old negro attracted a group of lazy fellows,--the driver of an express wagon, the man who hauls the mail to the post-office, a boy who sold fruit to passengers on the train, two porters, with tin signs upon their hats, who solicited patronage from the hotels. “Why, Pop,” said the superintendent, winking to the expressman, “this lump looks as though it contained gold.” “Yes,” put in the expressman, “that's how gold comes in a mine. I've often handled it. That's the stuff, sure.” The fruit-selling boy and the mail-man grinned. Pop Thornberry opened wide his mouth and eyes and softly repeated the word: “Goal!” “I'd be careful of it,” advised Mr. Monroe, handing the clod back to the negro. Pop took it with a trembling hand and looked at it. Presently he asked: “W'at'll you give me foh dat air goal, Mistah Monroe.” “Oh, a piece like that would be no use to me. It has to be washed and it wouldn't be worth while putting just one piece through the whole process of cleaning. Now. If you have a lot of it, we might go into partnership in the gold business.” Before the old man could answer to this pleasantry a whistle was heard up the track, and Pop was forgotten in the excitement attending the arrival of the train. Dislodged from the baggage-truck, the old man looked around for Mr. Monroe, but the superintendent had disappeared. Pop did not seek to carry any satchels that day. His mind was full of other matters. He went behind the station and sat down beside the river. “Goal!” That meant proper tombstones for the graves of his wife and children, a new pulpit for the African Methodist Church, equal to that of the African Baptist Church, future ease for his somewhat weary legs and arms and back. The next afternoon the division superintendent found himself awaited at his office door by Pop Thornberry, who was very dusty and who carried a basket heavy with clods of clay and mica. He had been out to the arid field that morning. “H-sh!” whispered Pop. “Doan' say a word, Mistah Monroe! Hyah's a lot o' dem air goal lumps, and I know weah dey's bushels moah,--plenty 'nuff to go into pahtnehship on.” The superintendent, looked bewildered, then amused, then ashamed. Embarrassed for a reply, he finally said: