But his blue eyes were shining with desire as he rose to his feet.  “Seven,” he muttered aloud, asserting the sum of the specks for which he had toiled so hard and which he had so wantonly thrown away.  “Seven,” he repeated, with the emphasis of one trying to impress a number on his memory.

He stood still a long while, surveying the hill-side.  In his eyes was a curiosity, new-aroused and burning.  There was an exultance about his bearing and a keenness like that of a hunting animal catching the fresh scent of game.

He moved down the stream a few steps and took a second panful of dirt.

Again came the careful washing, the jealous herding of the golden specks, and the wantonness with which he sent them flying into the stream when he had counted their number.

“Five,” he muttered, and repeated, “five.”

He could not forbear another survey of the hill before filling the pan farther down the stream.  His golden herds diminished.  “Four, three, two, two, one,” were his memory-tabulations as he moved down the stream.  When but one speck of gold rewarded his washing, he stopped and built a fire of dry twigs.  Into this he thrust the gold-pan and burned it till it was blue-black.  He held up the pan and examined it critically.  Then he nodded approbation.  Against such a color-background he could defy the tiniest yellow speck to elude him.

Still moving down the stream, he panned again.  A single speck was his reward.  A third pan contained no gold at all.  Not satisfied with this, he panned three times again, taking his shovels of dirt within a foot of one another.  Each pan proved empty of gold, and the fact, instead of discouraging him, seemed to give him satisfaction.  His elation increased with each barren washing, until he arose, exclaiming jubilantly: 

“If it ain’t the real thing, may God knock off my head with sour apples!”

Returning to where he had started operations, he began to pan up the stream.  At first his golden herds increased—­increased prodigiously.  “Fourteen, eighteen, twenty-one, twenty-six,” ran his memory tabulations.  Just above the pool he struck his richest pan—­thirty-five colors.

“Almost enough to save,” he remarked regretfully as he allowed the water to sweep them away.

The sun climbed to the top of the sky.  The man worked on.  Pan by pan, he went up the stream, the tally of results steadily decreasing.

“It’s just booful, the way it peters out,” he exulted when a shovelful of dirt contained no more than a single speck of gold.

And when no specks at all were found in several pans, he straightened up and favored the hillside with a confident glance.

“Ah, ha!  Mr. Pocket!” he cried out, as though to an auditor hidden somewhere above him beneath the surface of the slope.  “Ah, ha!  Mr. Pocket!  I’m a-comin’, I’m a-comin’, an’ I’m shorely gwine to get yer!  You heah me, Mr. Pocket?  I’m gwine to get yer as shore as punkins ain’t cauliflowers!”