The stream of water fell away, and instantly the torrid heat of the sun began to dry up the woodwork. And as his gaze passed down over the succession of riffles the unshining yellow of their precious burden suggested a golden pathway the whole length of the sluice.
“It makes you feel good, Len,” he said quietly, for all the burning excitement in his big blue eyes.
The other nodded as though the thing he were contemplating had left him speechless.
Jim Carver eyed him shrewdly. Then he glanced up at the blazing tropical sky. He gazed down at the slow-moving river, meandering on between jungle-grown banks on its way to the bay, less than five miles distant. Finally he bestirred himself.
“We best clean this wash up, Len,” he said. “We best clean it up an’ take it right back to camp. It’s feed time.”
He started to work at the top riffle, and Len Stern came back to realities.
“Sure,” he agreed. And at once joined in the work. “Say, Jim, do you get it?” he cried, glancing quickly at the mountain of pay dirt they had spent months in accumulating, standing ready for washing. “We guessed to wash a ton. Maybe it was, more or less. Ther’s not ounces in these riffles--no, ther’s--ther’s pounds!”
“It’s the biggest ‘strike’ ever made in the world,” he admitted in a tone that might well have been taken for one of grudging.
It was the northwest coast of Australia, the coast of that almost unexplored region which is one of the few remote territories of the world still retaining its fabulous atmosphere of romance.
It was on the shores of a wide, shallow bay where a small river abruptly opened out its land arms in welcome to the tropical ocean. Sun-scorched, fleshy vegetation grew densely almost to the water’s edge, keeping dank and fever-laden the suffocating atmosphere within its widespread bosom. Yet only was it this merciful shade that made life endurable to sensitive human creatures.
The sun was at its zenith, a furious disc of molten heat in a brazen sky. The sea at the river mouth lay dead flat under its burning rays, except for the ripple where some huge submarine creature disturbed its surface. Not a breath of air was stirring to relieve the suffocating atmosphere.
The two men were lounging in the shade of the wattle walls of their reed-thatched shelter. It was built amidst a cluster of dense-growing trees, and the site looked out over the brilliant bay. They had long since eaten, and were now awaiting the cooling of the day before returning to their labours.