Bonny strolled away collecting fire-wood. Presently he called back, pointing dramatically with his small-toed boot. “Who's been coyotin' round here?” The hard ground was freshly disturbed in spots as by the paws of some small inquisitive animal. There was no answer. “What you say? Whose surface diggin's is these? I never know anybody do some mining here.” “That was me”--Bonny backed a little nearer to catch the old man's words. “I was looking round here for something I lost.” “What luck you have? You fin' him?” “Well, now, doos it reely matter to you, sonny?” “Pardner, it don' matter to me a d--n, if you say so! I was jus' askin' myself what a man _would_ look for if he los' it here. Since I strike this 'ell of a place the very groun' been chewed up and spit out reg'lar, one hundred times a year. 'T'is a gris' mill!” “I didn't gretly expect to find what I was lookin' for. I was just foolin' around to satisfy myself.” “That satisfy me!” said Bonny pleasantly; and yet he was a trifle discomfited. He strolled away again and began to sing with a boyish show of indifference to having been called “sonny.” “Oh, Sally is the gal for me! Oh, Sally's the gal for me! On moonlight night when the star is bright--Oh”-- “Halloa! This some more your work, oncle? You ain' got no chicken wing for arm if you lif' this.--Ah, be dam! I see what you lif' him with. All same stove-lid.” Talking and swearing to himself cheerfully, Bonny applied the end of a broken whiffletree to the blunt lip of the old hearthstone which marked the stage-house chimney. He had tried a step-dance on it and found it hollow. More fresh digging, and marks upon the stone where some prying tool had taken hold and slipped, showed he was not the first who had been curious. “There you go, over on you' back, like snap' turtle; I see where you lay there before. What the dev'! I say!” Bonny, much excited with his find, extracted a rusty tin tobacco-box from the hole, pried open the spring lid and drew forth its contents: a discolored canvas bag bulging with coin and whipped around the neck with a leather whang. The canvas was rotten; Bonny supported its contents tenderly as he brought it over to the old man. “Oncle, I ask you' pardon for tappin' that safe. Pretty good lil' nest-egg, eh? But now you got to find her some other place.” “That don't belong to me,” said the old man indifferently. “Aw--don't be bashful! I onderstan' now what you los'. You dig here--there--migs up the scent. I just happen to step on that stone--ring him, so, with my boot-heel!” “That ain't my pile,” the other persisted. “I started to build a fire on that stone two nights ago. It rung hollow like you say. I looked and found what you found--” “And put her back! My soul to God! An' you here all by you'self!” “Why not? The stuff ain't mine.” “Who _is_ she? How long since anybody live here?” “I don't know,--good while, I guess.”