“Setting things to rights,” as Philip phrased it, did not ask for an entire day. By noon they had cached their tools and what remained of the stock of provisions after enough had been reserved to supply them on the journey; had filled a couple of ore sacks with samples for the assay; and had paced off and re-staked their claim, posting it with the proper notice and christening it the “Little Jean,”--this at Philip’s suggestion, though he did not tell Bromley why he chose this particular name. With nothing more to be done, Philip was impatiently eager to break camp at once, but Bromley pleaded for a few hours’ rest. “It’s Sunday,” he protested. “Can’t you possess your soul in patience for one little afternoon? This bonanza of ours--which may not be a bonanza, after all--won’t run away. I’d like to sleep up a bit before we strike out to climb any more mountains.” The impatient one consented reluctantly to the delay; and while Bromley, wearier than he cared to admit, slept for the better part of the afternoon, Philip dumped the sacked ore and spent the time raking over the pile of broken rock and vein-matter blasted out of the shallow opening, selecting other samples which he thought might yield a fairer average of values. Beside the camp fire that evening he stretched himself out with the two sacks of ore for a back rest; and Bromley, awake now and fully refreshed, noted the back rest and smiled. “Like the feel of it, even in the rough, don’t you, Phil?” he jested. Then: “I’m wondering if this treasure hunt hasn’t got under your skin in more ways than one. At first, you were out for the pure excitement of the chase; but now you are past all that; you are plain money-hungry.” “Well, who isn’t?” Philip demanded, frowning into the heart of the fire. “Still, you’re wrong. It isn’t the money so much, as what it will buy.” “What will it buy--more than you’ve always had? You won’t be able to eat any more or any better food, or wear any more clothes, or get more than one tight roof to shelter you at a time,--needs you have always had supplied, or have been able to supply for yourself.” Getting no reply to this, he went on. “Suppose this strike of ours should pan out a million or so--which is perhaps as unlikely as anything in the world--what would you do with the money?” For the moment Philip became a conventional, traditional worshipper at the altar of thrift. “I think I should emulate the example of the careful dog with a bone; go and dig a safe hole and bury most of it.” Bromley’s laugh came back in cachinnating echoes from the gulch cliffs. “Not on your life you wouldn’t, Philip. I can read your horoscope better than that. If it does happen to happen that we’ve really made a ten-strike, I can see you making the good old welkin ring till the neighbors won’t be able to hear themselves think, for the noise you’ll make.” “I don’t know why you should say anything like that,” Philip objected morosely.