Finally they turned back along the drift toward the stope, the acrid odor of dynamite smoke-cutting at their nostrils as they approached the spot where the explosions had occurred.

There Harry stood in silent contemplation for a long time, holding his carbide over the pile of ore that had been torn from the vein above.
"It ain't much," came at last.

"Not more 'n 'arf a ton.

We won't get rich at that rate.

And besides--" he looked upward--"we ain't even going to be getting that pretty soon.