A pin dropping would have sounded like a tin wash boiler rolling downstairs in the silence which fell upon the office of the Hinds House. Uncle Bill, looking serenely at the circle of tense faces, continued to smoke while he took his own time to reply. "I'm a thinkin',"--puff-puff--"that when you sink a hundred feet below the surface,"--puff-puff--"you won't git a damn thing." Involuntarily Yankee Sam reached for the poker and various eyes sought the wood-box for a sizable stick of wood. "Upon what do you base your opinion?" asked Mr. Dill, taken somewhat aback. "What makes you think that?" "Because we're in it now. The weatherin' away of the surface enrichment made the placers we washed out in '61-'64." Judge George Petty glowered and demanded contemptuously: "Do you know what a mine _is_?" "Well," replied Uncle Bill tranquilly, "not allus, but ginerally a mine is a hole in the ground owned by a liar." Yankee Sam half rose from his chair and pointed an accusing poker at Uncle Bill. "That old pin-head is the worst knocker that ever queered a camp. If we'd a knowed you was comin'," turning to Mr. Dill, "we'd a put him in a tunnel with ten days' rations and walled him up." "They come clost to lynchin' me onct on Sucker Crick in Southern Oregon for tellin' the truth," Uncle Bill said reminiscently, unperturbed. Southern Oregon! Wilbur Dill looked startled. Ah, that was it! He looked sharply at Griswold, but the old man's face was blank. "We're all entitled to our opinions," he said lightly, though his assurance had abated by a shade, "but, judging superficially, from the topography of the country, I'm inclined to disagree." Ore City's sigh of relief was audible. Mr. Dill continued: "And I--we are willing to back our confidence in your camp by the expenditure of a reasonable amount, in order to find out; but, gentlemen, you've raised your sights too high. Your figures'll have to come down if we do business. A prospect isn't a mine, you know, and there's not been much development work done, as I understand." "How was you aimin' to work it," Uncle Bill asked mildly, "in case you _did_ git anything? The Mascot burned its profits buyin' wood fer steam." "The riddles of yesterday are the commonplaces of to-day, my friend. The world has moved since the arrastre was invented and steam is nearly as obsolete. Hydro-electric is the only power to-day and that's what I--we--propose to use." Ore City's eyes widened and then they looked at Uncle Bill. What drawback would he think of next? He never disappointed. "There ain't water enough down there in Lemon Crick in August to run a churn." Mr. Dill laughed heartily: "Right you are--but how about the river down below--there's water enough in that, if all I'm told is true." For once he surprised the old man into an astonished stare. "The river's all of twenty mile from here." "They've transmitted power from Victoria Falls on the Zembesi River, in Rhodesia, six hundred miles to the Rand."