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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!”