But Ducky shook his head at this. No chance. And yet, come dinner time next night, here sits Percival again, looking as cocky as a cat that’s eaten a canary. Throughout the meal Dog and Ducky cast anxious eyes at him. Percival finished, pushed his plate toward the center of the table, got up, thrust his hand deep into his right-hand trouser pocket and brought forth something wrapped in a bit of paper. He unwrapped the paper and held out for inspection a nugget twice as large as any that the conspirators had planted for him. “I worked in new ground today, farther up the creek. Good night.” They watched him, fascinated, as he climbed the ladder to the loft. “Suffering crawfish!” hissed Ducky, after he had safely gone. Dog said nothing at all for a full minute, and then: “You remember that Swede at Dawson that took a million dollars out of the place we gave up as no good.” “I remember,” said Ducky. “Probably nothing to this.” “Probably not,” agreed Dog, but without conviction. “We’ll see what he brings home tomorrow night.” * * * * * Next night Percival stoked as usual, pushed back his plate, got up, fished into his right-hand trouser pocket and produced two nuggets about the size of the one he had displayed the night before. Dog cleared his throat and spoke with elaborate casualty. “Just where are you working now?” “Up the creek. Around that second bend. Good night.” Again they watched him climb the ladder. Ducky spoke first. “That takes him out of our land, onto the free range. All he’s got to do is stake his claim.” “I know it. Let’s wait one more day.” At the end of the day that followed, Percival again ate his dinner, pushed back his plate and dug into his right-hand trouser pocket, producing this time three nuggets. “Getting better,” he said, and started toward the ladder, but this time Dog called to him. “Of course a nugget now and then don’t really mean anything.” “They’re good for money,” said Percival calmly. “After I get enough of them, I can trade them for three hundred dollars, and that’s what I need to get back to New York.” Dog looked at Ducky, and Ducky at Dog. Dog spoke. “That’s all you want, is it? Three hundred dollars?” “That’s all.” “Well--” Dog seemed to hesitate. “If that’s really all you want, maybe Ducky and I could scrape it up between us.” “All right. Take me to town tomorrow, and give me three hundred dollars. Good night.” Again he started for the ladder, and this time they let him go. Dog looked at Ducky, and Ducky looked at Dog. Spud Dugan, who had been standing by, put in an oar. “You’re going to put this over on him, are you?” “It’s his own proposition,” said Dog decisively. “Looks raw to me,” answered Spud. “All I got to say is that money or anything else that’s come by through sharp practice don’t ever do nobody no good. I hope you never find a thing after that kid’s gone.” “Oh, dry up,” said Dog. “What does a poet want with money, anyhow?”