The little lumps he gazed at were milky white, and through them ran what seemed to be very fine yellow threads.
"That is wire gold ?" "It is," said Devine.

"A sure thing." Then the surveyor swept off his battered hat and swung round toward the willows, a grotesque ragged figure with his hands spread out.
"You weren't crazy, partner.

You brought us up out of the swamps and sloos of poverty, and planked us down right on to the lode," he said.
Weston said nothing.

After all, he was English, and to some extent reticent, but he felt that his comrade's dramatic utterance was more or less warranted, for the irony and pathos of the situation was clear to him.

Grenfell had found the mine at last, but the gold he had sought so persistently was not for him.