The apex of the “V” was evidently the man’s goal.  Often he ran his eye along the converging sides and on up the hill, trying to divine the apex, the point where the gold-bearing dirt must cease.  Here resided “Mr. Pocket”—­for so the man familiarly addressed the imaginary point above him on the slope, crying out: 

“Come down out o’ that, Mr. Pocket!  Be right smart an’ agreeable, an’ come down!”

“All right,” he would add later, in a voice resigned to determination.  “All right, Mr. Pocket.  It’s plain to me I got to come right up an’ snatch you out bald-headed.  An’ I’ll do it!  I’ll do it!” he would threaten still later.

Each pan he carried down to the water to wash, and as he went higher up the hill the pans grew richer, until he began to save the gold in an empty baking-powder can which he carried carelessly in his hip-pocket.  So engrossed was he in his toil that he did not notice the long twilight of oncoming night.  It was not until he tried vainly to see the gold colors in the bottom of the pan that he realized the passage of time.  He straightened up abruptly.  An expression of whimsical wonderment and awe overspread his face as he drawled: 

“Gosh darn my buttons! if I didn’t plumb forget dinner!”

He stumbled across the stream in the darkness and lighted his long-delayed fire.  Flapjacks and bacon and warmed-over beans constituted his supper.  Then he smoked a pipe by the smouldering coals, listening to the night noises and watching the moonlight stream through the canyon.  After that he unrolled his bed, took off his heavy shoes, and pulled the blankets up to his chin.  His face showed white in the moonlight, like the face of a corpse.  But it was a corpse that knew its resurrection, for the man rose suddenly on one elbow and gazed across at his hillside.

“Good night, Mr. Pocket,” he called sleepily.  “Good night.”

He slept through the early gray of morning until the direct rays of the sun smote his closed eyelids, when he awoke with a start and looked about him until he had established the continuity of his existence and identified his present self with the days previously lived.

To dress, he had merely to buckle on his shoes.  He glanced at his fireplace and at his hillside, wavered, but fought down the temptation and started the fire.

“Keep yer shirt on, Bill; keep yer shirt on,” he admonished himself.  “What’s the good of rushin’?  No use in gettin’ all het up an’ sweaty.  Mr. Pocket’ll wait for you.  He ain’t a-runnin’ away before you can get yer breakfast.  Now, what you want, Bill, is something fresh in yer bill o’ fare.  So it’s up to you to go an’ get it.”

He cut a short pole at the water’s edge and drew from one of his pockets a bit of line and a draggled fly that had once been a royal coachman.

“Mebbe they’ll bite in the early morning,” he muttered, as he made his first cast into the pool.  And a moment later he was gleefully crying:  “What’d I tell you, eh?  What’d I tell you?”