THE TRAIL OF '98           235;
boxes a mile long and about sixteen hundred riffles. But I guess they know what they are doing."
About noon we descended into the creek-bed and came to the Forks. It was a little town, a Dawsoa in miniature, with all its sordid aspects infinitely accentuated. It had dance-halls, gambling dens and many saloons: every convenience to ease the miner of the plethoric poke. There in the din and daze and dirt we tarried awhile; then, after eating heartily, we struck up Eldorado.
Here was the same feverish activity of gold-getting-Every claim was valued at millions, and men who had rarely owned enough to buy a decent coat were crying in the saloons because life was not long enough to allow them to spend their sudden wealth. Nevertheless, they were making a good stab at it. At the Forks I enquired regarding Ribwood and Hoofman: "Goin' to work for them, are you? Well* they've got a blamed hard name. If you. get a job elsewhere, don't turn it down."
Jim left me; he would work on no claim of Lo-casto's, he said. He had a friend, a laymanr who was a good man, belonged to the Army. He would try him.    So we parted.
Ribwood was a tall, gaunt Cornishman, with a narrow, jutting face and a gloomy air; Hoofman, a burly, beet-coloured Australian with a bulging stomach*
" Yes, we'll put you to work," said Hoofman, reading the letter.    " Get your coat off and shovel in."
So, right away, I found myself in the dump-pile, jamming a shovel into the pay-dirt and swinging it