Each pan he carried down to the water to wash， and ashe went higher up the hill the pans grew richer， until hebegan to save the gold in an empty baking-powder canwhich he carried carelessly in his hip-pocket. So engrossedwas he in his toil that he did not notice the long twilightof oncoming night. It was not until he tried vainly to seethe gold colors in the bottom of the pan that he realizedthe passage of time. He straightened up abruptly. Anexpression of whimsical wonderment and awe overspreadhis face as he drawled：
“Gosh darn my buttons！ if I didn’t plumb forget dinner！”
He stumbled across the stream in the darkness andlighted his long-delayed fire. Flapjacks and bacon andwarmed-over beans constituted his supper. Then hesmoked a pipe by the smouldering coals， listening to thenight noises and watching the moonlight stream throughthe canyon. After that he unrolled his bed， took off hisheavy shoes， and pulled the blankets up to his chin. Hisface showed white in the moonlight， like the face of acorpse. But it was a corpse that knew its resurrection， forthe man rose suddenly on one elbow and gazed across athis hillside.
“Good night， Mr. Pocket，” he called sleepily. “Good night.”
He slept through the early gray of morning until thedirect rays of the sun smote his closed eyelids， when heawoke with a start and looked about him until he hadestablished the continuity of his existence and identifiedhis present self with the days previously lived.
To dress， he had merely to buckle on his shoes. Heglanced at his fireplace and at his hillside， wavered， butfought down the temptation and started the fire.
“Keep yer shirt on， Bill； keep yer shirt on，” he admonishedhimself. “What’s the good of rushin’？ No use in gettin’
all het up an’ sweaty. Mr. Pocket’ll wait for you. He ain’ta-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 fromone of his pockets a bit of line and a draggled fly that hadonce 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 laterhe was gleefully crying： “What ’d I tell you， eh？ What ’d Itell you？”
He had no reel， nor any inclination to waste time， andby main strength， and swiftly， he drew out of the watera flashing ten-inch trout. Three more， caught in rapidsuccession， furnished his breakfast. When he came to thestepping-stones on his way to his hillside， he was struck bya sudden thought， and paused.
“I’d just better take a hike down-stream a ways，” he said.
“There’s no tellin’ what cuss may be snoopin’ around.”
But he crossed over on the stones， and with a “I reallyoughter take that hike，” the need of the precaution passedout of his mind and he fell to work.
At nightfall he straightened up. The small of his backwas stiff from stooping toil， and as he put his hand behindhim to soothe the protesting muscles， he said：
“Now what d’ye think of that， by damn？ I cleanforgot my dinner again！ If I don’t watch out， I’ll sure bedegeneratin’ into a two-meal-a-day crank.”
“Pockets is the damnedest things I ever see for makin’
a man absent-minded，” he communed that night， as hecrawled into his blankets. Nor did he forget to call up thehillside， “Good night， Mr. Pocket！ Good night！”
Rising with the sun， and snatching a hasty breakfast， hewas early at work. A fever seemed to be growing in him，nor did the increasing richness of the test-pans allay thisfever. There was a flush in his cheek other than that madeby the heat of the sun， and he was oblivious to fatigue andthe passage of time. When he filled a pan with dirt， he randown the hill to wash it； nor could he forbear running upthe hill again， panting and stumbling profanely， to refillthe pan.
He was now a hundred yards from the water， and theinverted “V” was assuming definite proportions. Thewidth of the pay-dirt steadily decreased， and the manextended in his mind’s eye the sides of the “V” to theirmeeting-place far up the hill. This was his goal， the apex ofthe “V”， and he panned many times to locate it.
“Just about two yards above that manzanita bush an’ ayard to the right，” he finally concluded.
Then the temptation seized him. “As plain as the noseon your face，” he said， as he abandoned his laboriouscross-cutting and climbed to the indicated apex. He filleda pan and carried it down the hill to wash. It containedno trace of gold. He dug deep， and he dug shallow， fillingand washing a dozen pans， and was unrewarded even bythe tiniest golden speck. He was enraged at having yieldedto the temptation， and cursed himself blasphemously andpridelessly. Then he went down the hill and took up thecross-cutting.
“Slow an’ certain， Bill； slow an’ certain，” he crooned.
“Short-cuts to fortune ain’t in your line， an’ it’s about timeyou know it. Get wise， Bill； get wise. Slow an’ certain’s theonly hand you can play； so go to it， an’ keep to it， too.”
As the cross-cuts decreased， showing that the sides ofthe “V” were converging， the depth of the “V” increased.
The gold-trace was dipping into the hill. It was only atthirty inches beneath the surface that he could get colorsin his pan. The dirt he found at twenty-five inches fromthe surface， and at thirty-five inches， yielded barren pans.
At the base of the “V” by the water’s edge， he had foundthe gold colors at the grass roots. The higher he went upthe hill， the deeper the gold dipped. To dig a hole threefeet deep in order to get one test-pan was a task of nomean magnitude； while between the man and the apexintervened an untold number of such holes to be dug. “An’
there’s no tellin’ how much deeper it ’ll pitch，” he sighed，in a moment’s pause， while his fingers soothed his achingback.