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The Aurora Borealis, as the mine was now called, had been working all winter, and gigantic dumps of red pay-dirt stood as monuments to the industry of its workmen. Rumor had it that the “streak” was rich, and that Doctor Slayforth, the owner, would be in on the first boat to personally oversee the clean-ups. The ex-missionary, Bill discovered, had the reputation of being a tight man, and meanly suspicious in money matters. He reposed no confidence in his superintendent, a surly, saturnine fellow known as Black Jack Berg, nor in Denny Slevin, his foreman. So much Laughing Bill gathered from camp gossip.

It soon became evident that Black Jack was a hard driver, for sluicing began with the first trickle of snow water–even while the ditches were still ice-bound–and it continued with double shifts thereafter. A representative of Doctor Slayforth came out from Nome to watch the first clean-up, and Bill, in his capacity as chambermaid, set up a cot for him in the cabin shared by Black Jack and Denny. While so engaged the latter discovered him, and gruffly ordered him to remove the cot to the bunk-house.

“Put him in with the men,” growled Slevin. “Serves the dam’ spy right.”

“Spy? Is he a gum-shoe?” Mr. Hyde paused, a pillow slip between his teeth.

“That’s what! Me and Jack was honest enough to run things all winter, but we ain’t honest enough to clean up. That’s like old Slayforth–always lookin’ to get the worst of it. I’m square, and so’s Jack. Makes me sick, this spyin’ on honest folks. Everybody knows we wouldn’t turn a trick.”

Now it was Laughing Bill’s experience that honesty needs no boosting, and that he who most loudly vaunts his rectitude is he who is least certain of it.

“The boss must be a good man, him being a sort of psalm-singer,” Bill ventured, guilelessly.

Denny snorted: “Oh, sure! He’s good, all right. He’s ‘most too good–to be true. Billy, my boy, when you’ve seen as many crooks as I have you’ll know ’em, no matter how they come dressed.”

As he folded the cot Mr. Hyde opined that worldly experience must indeed be a fine thing to possess.

“You go gamble on it!” Slevin agreed. “Now then, just tell that Hawkshaw we don’t want no dam’ spies in our house. We’re square guys, and we can’t stomach ’em.”

That evening Black Jack called upon the handy-man to help with the clean-up, and put him to tend the water while he and Denny, under the watchful eye of the owner’s representative, lifted the riffles, worked down the concentrates, and removed them from the boxes.

Bill was an experienced placer miner, so it was not many days before he was asked to help in the actual cleaning of the sluices. He was glad of the promotion, for, as he told himself, no man can squeeze a lemon without getting juice on his fingers. It will be seen, alas! that Mr. Hyde’s moral sense remained blunted in spite of the refining influence of his association with Doctor Thomas. But Aurora dust was fine, and the handy-man’s profits were scarcely worth the risks involved in taking them.

One morning while Bill was cleaning up the superintendent’s cabin he noticed a tiny yellow flake of gold upon the floor in front of Slevin’s bed. Careful examination showed him several “colors” of the same sort, so he swept the boards carefully and took up the dust in a “blower.” He breathed upon the pile, blowing the lighter particles away. A considerable residue of heavy yellow grains remained. With a grin Bill folded them in a cigarette paper and placed them in his pocket. But it puzzled him to explain how there came to be gold on the cabin floor. His surprise deepened when, a few days later, he found another “prospect” in the same place. His two sweepings had yielded perhaps a pennyweight of the precious metal–enough to set him to thinking. It seemed queer that in the neighborhood of Black Jack’s bunk he could find no pay whatever.