“Certingly, marm; ev’ry galoot ov’em would be glad of the chance.  Here, you fellers—­who’s got the cleanest pan?”

Half a dozen men washed out their pans, and hurried off with them.  Toledo selected one, put in dirt and water, and handed it to Miss Brown.

“Thar you are, marm, but I’m afeared you’ll wet your dress.”

“Oh, that won’t harm,” cried Miss Brown, with a laugh which caused one enthusiastic miner to “cut the pigeon-wing.”

She got the miner’s touch to a nicety, and in a moment had a spray of dirty water flying from the edge of the pan, while all the boys stood in a respectful semicircle, and stared delightedly.  The pan empty, Toledo refilled it several times; and, finally, picking out some pebbles and hard pieces of earth, pointed to the dirty, shiny deposit in the bottom of the pan, and briefly remarked: 

“Thar ’tis, marm.”

“Oh!” screamed Miss Brown, with delight; “is that really gold-dust?”

“That’s it,” said Toledo.  “I’ll jest put it up fur yer, so yer ken kerry it.”

“Oh, no,” said Miss Brown, “I couldn’t think of it—­it isn’t mine.”

“You washed it out, marm, an’ that makes a full title in these parts.”

All of the traditional honesty of New England came into Miss Brown’s face in an instant; and, although she, Yankee-like, estimated the value of the dust, and sighingly thought how much easier it was to win gold in that way than by forcing ideas into stupid little heads, she firmly declined the gold, and bade the crowd a smiling good-day.

“Did yer see them little fingers uv hern a-holdin’ out that pan?—­did yer see her, fellers?” inquired an excited miner.

“Yes, an’ the way she made that dirt git, ez though she was useder to washin’ than wallopin’,” said another.

“Wallopin’!” echoed a staid miner.  “I’d gie my claim, an’ throw in my pile to boot, to be a young ‘un an’ git walloped by them playthings of han’s.”

“Jest see how she throwed dirt an’ water on them boots,” said another, extending an enormous ugly boot.  “Them boots ain’t fur sale now—­them ain’t.”

“Them be durned!” contemptuously exclaimed another.  “She tramped right on my toes as she backed out uv the crowd.”

Every one looked jealously at the last speaker, and a grim old fellow suggested that the aforesaid individual had obtained a trampled foot by fraud, and that each man in camp had, consequently, a right to demand satisfaction of him.

But the judge decided that he of the trampled foot was right, and that any miner who wouldn’t take such a chance, whether fraudulently or otherwise, hadn’t the spirit of a man in him.

Yankee Sam, the shortest man in camp, withdrew from the crowd, and paced the banks of the creek, lost in thought.  Within half an hour Sam was owner of the only store in the place, had doubled the prices of all articles of clothing contained therein, and increased at least six-fold the price of all the white shirts.