THERE are some stories that have to be true—the sort that cannot be fabricated by a ready fiction-reckoner. And by the same token there are some men with stories to tell who cannot be doubted. Such a man was Julian Jones. Although I doubt if the average reader of this will believe the story Julian Jones told me. Nevertheless I believe it. So thoroughly am I convinced of its verity that I am willing, nay, eager, to invest capital in the enterprise and embark personally on the adventure to a far land. It was in the Australian Building at the Panama Pacific Exposition that I met him. I was standing before an exhibit of facsimiles of the record nuggets which had been discovered in the goldfields of the Antipodes. Knobbed, misshapen and massive, it was as difficult to believe that they were not real gold as it was to believe the accompanying statistics of their weights and values. “That’s what those kangaroo-hunters call a nugget,” boomed over my shoulder directly at the largest of the specimens. I turned and looked up into the dim blue eyes of Julian Jones. I looked up, for he stood something like six feet four inches in height. His hair, a wispy, sandy yellow, seemed as dimmed and faded as his eyes. It may have been the sun which had washed out his colouring; at least his face bore the evidence of a prodigious and ardent sun-burn which had long since faded to yellow. As his eyes turned from the exhibit and focussed on mine I noted a queer look in them as of one who vainly tries to recall some fact of supreme importance. “What’s the matter with it as a nugget?” I demanded. The remote, indwelling expression went out of his eyes as he boomed “Why, its size.” “It does seem large,” I admitted. “But there’s no doubt it’s authentic. The Australian Government would scarcely dare—” “Large!” he interrupted, with a sniff and a sneer. “Largest ever discovered—” I started on. “Ever discovered!” His dim eyes smouldered hotly as he proceeded. “Do you think that every lump of gold ever discovered has got into the newspapers and encyclopedias?” “Well,” I replied judicially, “if there’s one that hasn’t, I don’t see how we’re to know about it. If a really big nugget, or nugget-finder, elects to blush unseen—” “But it didn’t,” he broke in quickly. “I saw it with my own eyes, and, besides, I’m too tanned to blush anyway. I’m a railroad man and I’ve been in the tropics a lot. Why, I used to be the colour of mahogany—real old mahogany, and have been taken for a blue-eyed Spaniard more than once—” It was my turn to interrupt, and I did. “Was that nugget bigger than those in there, Mr.—er—?” “Jones, Julian Jones is my name.” He dug into an inner pocket and produced an envelope addressed to such a person, care of General Delivery, San Francisco; and I, in turn, presented him with my card.