"It means that you are rich beyond the dreams of avarice. It means that you are a budding Rockefeller. It means that the Yankee Doodle Glory, if the vein runs true. . ."
"Truex says it does. . ."
"He ought to know. He is an expert at blocking out ore bodies in his own crude way."
"I guess so." Tom pointed at the paragraph at the bottom of the assay report. "Say, Garrett, what's this?"
"Just what it says there. You see, when I assayed the ore samples, though I used all the known tests, there was one little ingredient, a metal most likely—I am trying not to be too technical—that I was unable to separate."
Tom leaned across the counter. He thought of his partner's curious words, and of his own curious sensation, something like an echo, yet less decided, more far away, he had experienced when he had entered the tunnel of the Yankee Doodle Glory and had come face to face with the ore ledge which his partner's pickaxe had uncovered.
"This unknown metal or whatever you call it," he asked, "did it—well—affect you any? Your ears, I mean. . .?"
"Yes!" Garrett gave his words the emphasis of a suddenly lowered voice. "It did affect my ears in a very strange," he thumped the table in an access of quite unhabitual excitement, "a perfectly unscientific manner." He was going to say more, but checked himself. "Never mind," he went on, "you are rich. You've got the gold. As to this unknown ingredient, this unknown metal, I have made sure that it will not interfere with any smelting process you may decide on, And I shall send it East to a friend of mine who
