"Hold on!" he cried, picking up two or three grimy bits of dirt and rubbing them with his fingers.

A bright yellow flashed forth.
"Hell!" the pocket-miner reiterated tonelessly.

"First rattle out the box.

Begins at the grass roots and goes all the way down." Head turned to the side and up, eyes closed, nostrils distended and quivering, he rose suddenly to his feet and sniffed the air.

Corliss looked up wonderingly.
"Huh!" the pocket-miner grunted.