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The Sounding of the Call
Springcameononcemore,andattheendofalltheirwanderingtheyfound,nottheLostCabin,butashallowplacerinabroadvalleywherethegoldshowedlikeyellowbutteracrossthebottomofthewashing-pan. Theysoughtnofarther. Eachdaytheyworkedearnedthemthousandsofdollarsincleandustandnuggets,andtheyworkedeveryday. Thegoldwassackedinmoose-hidebags,fiftypoundstothebag,andpiledlikesomuchfirewoodoutsidethespruce-boughlodge. Likegiantstheytoiled,daysflashingontheheelsofdayslikedreamsastheyheapedthetreasureup.
Therewasnothingforthedogstodo,savethehaulinginofmeatnowandagainthatThorntonkilled,andBuckspentlonghoursmusingbythefire. Thevisionoftheshort-leggedhairymancametohimmorefrequently,nowthattherewaslittleworktobedone; andoften,blinkingbythefire,Buckwanderedwithhiminthatotherworldwhichheremembered.
Thesalientthingofthisotherworldseemedfear. Whenhewatchedthehairymansleepingbythefire,headbetweenhiskneesandhandsclaspedabove,Bucksawthathesleptrestlessly,withmanystartsandawakenings,atwhichtimeshewouldpeerfearfullyintothedarknessandflingmorewooduponthefire. Didtheywalkbythebeachofasea,wherethehairymangatheredshellfishandatethemashegathered,itwaswitheyesthatrovedeverywhereforhiddendangerandwithlegspreparedtorunlikethewindatitsfirstappearance.
