But Courteau's indignation grew, and in a burst of excitement he disclaimed the guilt implied in Pierce's words. "So! You plead innocence! You imply that I robbed myself, eh? Well, how did I place the gold yonder? I ask you? Am I a magician?" He waved his arms wildly, then in a tone of malevolence he cried: "This is not the first time you have been accused of theft. I have heard that story about Sheep Camp."
"Sheep Camp, yes!" Phillips' eyes ignored the speaker; his gaze flew to Joe McCaskey's face and to him he directed his next words: "The whole thing is plain enough to me. You tried something like this once before, Joe, and failed. I suppose your back is well enough now for the rest of those forty lashes. Well, you'll get 'em—"
The Count came promptly to the rescue of his friend. "Ho! Again you lay your guilt upon others. Those miners at Sheep Camp let you off easy. Well, a pretty woman can do much with a miners' meeting, but here there will be no devoted lady to the rescue—no skirt to hide behind, for—"
Courteau got no further. Ignoring Rock's previous admonition, Pierce knocked the fellow down with a swift, clean blow. He would have followed up his attack only for the lieutenant, who grappled with him.
"Here! Do you want me to put you in irons?"
Courteau raised himself with difficulty; he groped for the bar and supported himself dizzily thereon, snarling from the pain. With his free hand he felt his cheek where Pierce's knuckles had found lodgment; then, as a fuller realization of the indignity his privileged person had suffered came home to him, he burst into a torrent of frenzied abuse.
"Shut up!" the officer growled, unsympathetically. "I know as much about that trial at Sheep Camp as you do, and if Phillips hadn't floored you I would. That's how you stand with me. You, too!" he shot at the McCaskeys. "Let me warn you if this is a frame-up you'll all go on the woodpile for the winter. D'you hear me? Of course, if you want to press this charge I'll make the arrest, but I'll just take you three fellows along so you can do some swearing before the colonel, where it'll go on the records."
"Arrest? But certainly!" screamed the Count. "The fellow is a thief, a pig. He struck me. ME! You saw him. I—"
"Sure, I saw him!" the officer grinned. "I was afraid he'd miss you. Stop yelling and come along." With a nod that included the McCaskeys as well as the titled speaker he linked arms with Pierce Phillips and led the way out into the night.
"W'at fool biznesse!" Doret indignantly exclaimed. "Dat boy is hones' as church."
He looked down at the sound of Rouletta's voice; then he started. The girl's face was strained and white and miserable; her hands were clasped over her bosom; she was staring horrified at the door through which Phillips had been taken. She swayed as if about to fall. 'Poleon half dragged, half carried her out into the street; with his arm about her waist he helped her toward her hotel.
The walk was a silent one, for Rouletta was in a state bordering upon collapse; gradually she regained control of herself and stumbled along beside him.
"They're three to one," she said, finally. "Oh, 'Poleon! They'll swear it on him. The Police are strict; they'll give him five years. I heard the colonel say so."
"Dere's been good deal of short-weighin', but—" Doret shook his head."Nobody goin' believe Courteau. And McCaskey is dam' t'ief."
"If—only I—could help him. You'll go to him, 'Poleon, won't you?Promise."
Silently the Canadian assented. They had reached the door of the hotel before he spoke again; then he said slowly, quietly:
"You been playin' 'hearts' wit' HIM, ma soeur? You—you love him? Yes?"
"Oh—yes!" The confession came in a miserable gasp.
"Bien! I never s'pect biff ore. Wal, dat's all right."
"The Police are swift and merciless," Rouletta persisted, fearfully."They hate the Front Street crowd; they'd like to make an example."
"Go in your li'l bed an' sleep," he told her, gently. "Dis t'ing is comin' out all right. 'Poleon fix it, sure; he's dandy fixer."
For some time after the door had closed upon Rouletta the big fellow stood with bent head, staring at the snow beneath his feet. The cheer, the sympathy, had left his face; the smile had vanished from his lips; his features were set and stony. With an effort he shook himself, then, murmured:
"Poor li'l bird! Wal, I s'pose now I got to bus' dat jail!"
Although 'Poleon had spoken with confidence, he found, upon arriving at Police Headquarters, that the situation was by no means as simple as it had appeared, and that something more than a mere word regarding Phillips' character would be required to offset the very definite accusation against him. Courteau, he learned, had pressed his charge with vigor, and although the two McCaskeys had maintained their outward show of reluctance at being dragged into the affair, they had, nevertheless, substantiated his statements with a thoroughness and a detail that hinted more than a little at vindictiveness. Pierce, of course, had denied his guilt, but his total inability to explain how the gold-dust in dispute came to be concealed in the cashier's cage, to which no one but he had access, had left the Police no alternative except to hold him. By the time 'Poleon arrived Pierce had been locked up for the night.
Drawing Rock aside, Doret put in an earnest plea for his young friend.The lieutenant answered him with some impatience:
"I admit it looks fishy, but what is there to do? The colonel likesPierce, as we all do, but—he had no choice."
"It's dirty frame-up."
"I imagine he believes so. And yet—how the deuce did that sack get where it was? I was standing alongside the McCaskeys when Courteau went up to pay his check, and I'm sure they had no part in it."
"M'sieu' le Comte is sore," 'Poleon asserted. "Me, I savvy plenty. Wal, how we goin' get dat boy from out of jail, eh? By Gar! I bet I don' sleep none if I'm lock up."
"Get bail for him."
'Poleon was frankly puzzled at this suggestion, but when its nature had been explained his face lit up.
"Ho! Dat's nice arrangements, for sure. Come! I fix it now."
"Have you got enough money?"
"I got 'bout t'irty dollar, but dat ain't mak' no differ. I go to workin' somewhere. Me, I'm good for anyt'ing."
"That won't do," Rock smiled. "You don't understand." Laboriously he made more plain the mysteries of court procedure, whereupon his hearer expressed the frankest astonishment.
"Sacre!" the latter exclaimed. "What for you say two, free T'OUSAN' dollar? Courteau 'ain't lose but six hundred, an' he's got it back. No! I'm t'inkin' you Policemans is got good sense, but I lak better a miners' meetin'. Us 'sour-dough' mak' better law as dem feller at Ottawa."
"Morris Best was willing to go his bail," Rock informed him, "but Miller wouldn't allow it. Ben is sore at having the Rialto implicated—there's been so much short-weighing going on. Understand?"
'Poleon wagged his head in bewilderment. "I don' savvy dis new kin' of law you feller is bring in de country. S'pose I say, 'M'sieu' Jodge, I know dis boy long tam; he don' steal dat gold.' De Jodge he say, 'Doret, how much money you got? T'ousand dollar?' I say, 'Sure! I got 'bout t'ousand dollar.' Den he tell me, 'Wal, dat ain't 'nough. Mebbe so you better gimme two t'ousan' dollar biffore I b'lieve you.' Bien! I go down-town an' win 'noder t'ousan' on de high card, or mebbe so I stick up some feller, den I come back and m'sieu' le jodge he say: 'Dat's fine! Now we let Phillips go home. He don' steal not'in'.' Wat I t'ink of dem proceedin's? Eh? I t'ink de jodge is dam' grafter!"
Rock laughed heartily. "Don't let Colonel Cavendish hear you," he cautioned. "Seriously now, he'd let Pierce go if he could; he told me so. He'll undoubtedly allow him the freedom of the Barracks, so he'll really be on parole until his trial."
"Trial? You goin' try him again?" The woodsman could make little of the affair. "If you try him two tam, dose crook is mak' t'ief of Pierce for sure. One trial is plenty. I s'pose mebbe I better kill dem feller off an' settle dis t'ing."
"Don't talk like that," Rock told him. "I'm not saying they don't need killing, but—nobody gets away with that stuff nowadays."
"No?" 'Poleon was interested and a trifle defiant. "For why? You never catch me, M'sieu'. Nobody is able for doin' dat. I'm good traveler."
Rock eyed the stalwart speaker meditatively. "I'd hate to take your trail, that's a fact, but I'd have to do it. However, that would be a poor way to help Pierce. If he's really innocent, Courteau will have a hard job to convict him. I suggest that you let matters rest as they are for a day or so. We'll treat the kid all right."
On the way to her room Rouletta met the Countess Courteau, and in a few words made known the facts of Pierce's arrest. The elder woman listened in astonishment.
"Arrested? For theft? Absurd! Who made the charge?"
"Count Courteau."
"COURTEAU? Where did he get a thousand dollars?" The speaker's face was set in an expression of utter incredulity.
"I don't know. It's all too wretched, too terrible—" Rouletta's voice broke; she hid her face in her hands. For a moment there was silence; then the elder woman exclaimed, harshly, peremptorily:
"Tell me everything. Quick! There's a reason why I must know all about it."
Drawing Rouletta into her room, she forced her into a chair, then stood over her while the latter repeated the story in greater detail.
"So! That's it!" the Countess cried, at last. "The McCaskeys backed him up. Of course! And he referred to Sheep Camp—to me. He's the sort to do a thing like that. God! What a dog!" After a time she went on: "I'm sorry Pierce struck him; he'll never get over that and it will make it harder—much harder."
"You think it can be straightened out?" Rouletta's face was strained; her eyes searched the former speaker's face eagerly.
"It's GOT to be straightened out. It would be monstrous to allow—" The Countess shook her head, then, with a mirthless smile, exclaimed: "But what a situation! Henri, of all persons! It's pleasant for me, isn't it? Well, somebody planted that poke—probably one of the McCaskeys. They'd like to railroad the boy. Joe is as vindictive as an Indian and he blames Pierce and me for his brother's death."
In desperation Rouletta cried: "I'll pay the Count back his money—I'll double it."
"HIS money?" sneered the woman. "He hasn't a cent, except what I give him. That was McCaskey's dust." She stared at the apprehensive figure crouched upon the edge of the chair, and slowly her expression softened. In a gentler tone she said, "I see you didn't take my advice; you didn't heed my warning."
"Who ever heeds a warning like yours?"
"Does Pierce know that you—feel this way about him?"
Rouletta sighed wearily. "I didn't know myself, although I more than half suspected. I didn't permit myself to think, it made me so unhappy."
"It ought to satisfy me somewhat to learn that he doesn't care for you, but—somehow it doesn't. He didn't care for me, either. But I cared for him. I love him now, just as you love him—better, probably. Oh, why conceal it? I've spent a good many black hours thinking about it and trying to fight it. Mind you, it wasn't his fault; it was just fate. There are some fellows who go smiling and singing along through life—clean, decent fellows, too—attending to their own affairs in a perfectly proper manner, but leaving a trail of havoc behind them. It isn't so true of women—they're usually flirts—their smiles don't last and the echo of their songs dies out. He's perfectly impossible for me. I wouldn't marry him if I were free and if he asked me. But that has nothing whatever to do with the case."
"I had no idea!" Rouletta said. "I suppose there's no hope for me, either. I'm not his kind. He's told me about his life, his people. I wouldn't fit in."
"It isn't that—people are adaptable, they make themselves fit, for a while at least—it's a question of identities. As much a matter of family histories as anything else. You're his antithesis in every respect and—like should mate with like. Now then, about this other trouble. I must work in my own way, and I see but one. I'll have to pay high, but—" The speaker lifted her shoulders as if a cold wind had chilled her. "I've paid high, up to date, and I suppose I shall to the end. Meanwhile, if you can get him out of jail, do so by all means. I can't. I daren't even try."
When, at a late hour, Count Henri Courteau entered the establishment that bore his name he was both surprised and angered to find his wife still awake. The guests of the hotel were asleep, the place was quiet, but the Countess was reading in an easy-chair beside the office stove. She was in negligee, her feet were resting upon the stove fender. She turned her head to say:
"Well, Henri, you look better than I thought you would."
The Count passed a caressing hand over his swollen cheek and his discolored left eye. "You heard about the fight, eh?" he inquired, thickly.
"Yes—if you'd call it that."
Courteau grimaced, but there was a ring of triumph and of satisfaction in his voice when he cried:
"Well, what do you think of that fellow? It was like him, wasn't it, after I had caught him red-handed?"
"To punch you? Quite like him," agreed the woman.
"Pig! To strike a defenseless man. Without warning, too. It shows his breeding. And now"—the speaker sneered openly—"I suppose you will bail him out."
"Indeed! Why should I?"
"Oh, don't pretend innocence!" the Count stormed. "Don't act so unconcerned. What's your game, anyhow? Whatever it is, that fellow will cut cord-wood for the rest of the winter where the whole of Dawson can see him and say, 'Behold the lover of the Countess Courteau!'"
"There's some mistake. He isn't a thief."
"No?" The husband swayed a few steps closer, his face working disagreeably. "Already it is proved. He is exposed, ruined. Bah! He made of me a laughing-stock. Well, he shall suffer! A born thief, that's what he is. What have you to say?"
"Why—nothing. I hoped it was a mistake, that's all."
"You HOPED! To be sure!" sneered the speaker. "Well, what are you going to do about it?" When his wife said nothing the man muttered, in some astonishment: "I didn't expect you to take it so quietly. I was prepared for a scene. What ails you?"
Hilda laid down her book. She turned to face her accuser. "Why should I make a scene?" she asked. "I've had nothing to do with Phillips since we parted company at White Horse. I've scarcely spoken to him, and you know it."
"You don't deny there was something between you?"
The woman shrugged non-committally, her lips parted in a faint, cheerless smile. "I deny nothing. I admit nothing."
Although Courteau's brain was fogged, he experienced a growing surprise at the self-possession with which his wife had taken this blow which he had aimed as much at her as at Pierce Phillips; he studied her intently, a mingling of suspicion, of anger, and of admiration in his uncertain gaze. He saw, for one thing, that his effort to reach her had failed and that she remained completely the mistress of herself. She reclined at ease in her comfortable chair, quite unstirred by his derision, his jubilation. He became aware, also, of the fact that she presented an extremely attractive picture, for the soft white fur of the loose robe she wore exposed an alluring glimpse of snowy throat and bosom; one wide sleeve had fallen back, showing a smoothly rounded arm; her silken ankles, lifted to the cozy warmth of the stove, were small and trim; her feet were shod in neat high-heeled slippers. The Count admired neatly shod ladies.
"You're a very smart-looking woman," he cried, with some reluctance. "You're beautiful, Hilda. I don't blame the young fool for falling. But you're too old, too wise—"
Hilda nodded. "You've said it. Too old and too wise. If I'd been as young and as silly as when I met you—who knows? He's a handsome boy."
Again the husband's anger blazed up.
"But I'm not young and silly," his wife interrupted.
"Just the same, you played me a rotten trick," the Count exploded. "And I don't forget. As for him"—he swore savagely—"he'll learn that it's not safe to humiliate me, to rob me of any woman—wife or mistress. You've never told me the half; I've had to guess. But I'm patient, I know how to wait and to use my eyes and my ears. Then to strike me! Perdition! I'll follow this through, never fear."
"How did you get a thousand dollars, Henri?" the wife inquired, curiously.
Courteau's gaze shifted. "What difference? I won it on a turn at the North Star; it was given to me; I found it. Anyhow, I had it. It was a good night for me; yes, a very good night. I had my revenge and I showed my friends that I'm a man to be reckoned with."
In a tone unexpectedly humble the woman said: "I had no idea you cared very much what I did or how I carried on. After all, it was your own fault."
"Mine?" The Count laughed in derision and astonishment.
"Exactly! If you had taken the trouble to show me that you cared—well, things might have been different. However—" The Countess rose, and with another change of voice and manner said: "Come along. Let's do something for your eye."
The Count stared at her in bewilderment, then he turned away, crying: "Bah! I want no help." At the door he paused to jeer once more. "Pierce Phillips! A common thief, a despicable creature who robs the very man he had most deeply injured. I've exposed him to the law and to public scorn. Sleep on that, my dear. Dream on it." With a chuckle he traced an uncertain course to the stairs, mounted them to his room, and slammed his door behind him.
He had undressed and flung himself into bed, but he had not yet fallen asleep when the door reopened and his wife entered, bearing in her hand a steaming pitcher of hot water. This she deposited; into it she dipped a folded towel.
"I'm sorry you're disfigured, Henri," she told him, quietly.
Despite his surly protests, she bathed and soothed his swollen features until he dropped asleep, after which she stole out and down to her room on the floor below. There, however, she paused, staring back up the empty stairway, a look of deepest loathing upon her face. Slowly, carefully, she wiped her hands as if they were unclean; her lips curled into a mirthless smile; then she passed into her chamber and turned the key behind her.
Rock had spoken truly in assuring 'Poleon that Pierce Phillips' lot would be made as easy for him as possible. That is what happened. No one at the Barracks appeared to take much stock in Courteau's charge, and even Colonel Cavendish, the commandant, took the trouble to send for him early the next morning and to ask for the whole story in detail. When Pierce had given it the officer nodded. "It looks very much like a spite case. I couldn't imagine your doing such a thing, my boy."
"It is a spite case, nothing else."
"Courteau is a rotter, and your affair with his wife explains his animosity."
"It wasn't exactly an 'affair,' sir." Pierce colored slightly as he went on to explain. "You see, I was perfectly honest. I didn't know there was a count, and when I learned there was I up stakes and ended it. She was the first woman who ever—Well, sir, I admired her tremendously. She—impressed me wonderfully."
"No doubt," the colonel smiled. "She's an impressive person. Are you still fond of her?"
"Not in the same way."
"What about this girl Laure?"
This time Pierce flushed uncomfortably. "I've no excuses to offer there, sir—no explanations. We—just drifted together. It was a long trip and the Yukon does that sort of thing. Force of circumstance as much as anything, I presume. I've been trying to break away, but—" he shrugged.
"You've been a pretty foolish lad." Pierce remained silent at this accusation, and the colonel went on: "However, I didn't bring you here to lecture you. The Royal Mounted have other things to think about than young wasters who throw themselves away. After all, it's a free-and-easy country and if you want to play ducks and drakes it's your own business. I merely want you to realize that you've put yourself in a bad light and that you don't come into court with clean hands."
"I understand. I put in a wakeful night thinking about it. It's the first time in a long while that I've done any serious thinking."
"Well, don't be discouraged. A little thinking will benefit you. Now then, I'm going to put Rock at work on your case, and meanwhile you may have the liberty of the Barracks. You're a gentleman, and I trust you to act as one."
Pierce was only too grateful for this courtesy, and to realize that he retained the respect of this middle-aged, soldierly officer, whom he had long admired, filled him with deep relief. He gave his promise readily enough.
Later in the day Broad and Bridges came in to see him, and their indignation at the outrage, their positive assertion that it was nothing less than a deliberate conspiracy, and so considered among the Front Street resorts, immensely cheered him.
"You remember the holler I let up when them Sheep-Campers wanted to hang McCaskey?" Broad inquired. "It was my mistake. His ear and a hemp knot would go together like rheumatism and liniment."
Bridges agreed. "Funny, us three bein' tillicums, ain't it?" he mused. "Especially after the way we dredged you. We didn't need your loose change, but—there it was, so we took it."
"You'd of done better if you'd turned on the hollow of your foot that day and romped right back to the old farm," Broad asserted. "You'd never of doubled up with the McCaskeys and you'd still be the blushing yokel you was."
"Yes, you're a different kid, now." Both gamblers, it seemed, were in the melancholy mood for moralizing. "Why, we was talkin' to Rouletta about you this morning. She's all bereaved up over this thing; she sent us here to cheer you. You was clean as an apple, then—and easier to pick—now you're just a common bar-fly, the same as us. Laure done it. She's the baby vampire that made a bum of you."
"You're not very flattering." Phillips smiled faintly.
"Oh, I'm sort of repeatin' what Letty said. She put me to thinkin'.She's quite a noisy little missionary when she gets started."
"Missionary!" Broad exclaimed, in disdain. "I don't like the word. Them birds is about useful as a hip pocket in an undershirt. Why, missionaries don't do no real, lasting good outside of Indian villages! Us sure-thing guys are the best missionaries that ever struck this country. Look at the good we done around Dyea and Skagway. Them gospel-bringers never touched it. We met the suckers on the edge of the Frozen North and we turned 'em back by the score. Them three walnut husks done more good than the Ten Commandments. Yes, sir, a set of cheatin' tools will save more strayed lambs than a ship-load of Testaments."
"Letty figgers that somebody tossed that goldsack over the top of the cage after you follered the Count out."
"Impossible," Pierce declared.
"I got an idea." It was Broad speaking again. "The mere contemplation of physical violence unmans that Frog. He'd about as soon have a beatin' as have a leg cut off with a case-knife. S'pose me and the Kid lure him to some lonely spot—some good yellin'-place—and set upon him with a coupla pick-handles. We'll make him confess or we'll maim and meller him till he backs out through his bootlegs. What d'you say?"
Pierce shook his head. "Something must be done, but I doubt if that's it. It's tough to be—disgraced, to have a thing like this hanging over you. I wouldn't mind it half so much if I were up for murder or arson or any man's-sized crime. Anything except STEALING!"
"A mere matter of choice," the former speaker lightly declared. "We got boys around the Rialto that has tried 'em all. They don't notice no particular difference."
For some time the three friends discussed the situation, then, when his visitors rose to go, Pierce accompanied them to the limits of the Barracks premises and there stood looking after them, realizing with a fresh pang that he was a prisoner. It was an unfortunate predicament, he reflected, and quite as unpleasant as the one which had brought him into conflict with the angry men of Sheep Camp. That had been an experience fraught with peril, but his present plight was little better, it seemed to him, for already he felt the weight of the Dominion over him, already he fancied himself enmeshed in a discouraging tangle of red tape. There was no adventurous thrill to this affair, nothing but an odious feeling of shame and disgrace which he could not shake off.
He was staring morosely at the ground between his feet when he heard a voice that caused him to start. There, facing him with a light of pleasure in her blue eyes, was the girl of the skees.
"Hello!" said she. She extended her hand, and her mitten closed overPierce's fingers with a firm clasp. "I'm awfully glad to see you again,Mr—" She hesitated, then with a smile confessed, "Do you know, you'remy only pupil and yet I've never heard your name."
"Phillips," said he.
"You don't deserve to be remembered at all, for you didn't come to the dance. And after you had promised, too."
"I couldn't come," he assured her, truthfully enough.
"I looked for you. I was quite hurt when you failed to appear. Then I thought perhaps you expected something more formal than a mere verbal invitation, and in that way I managed to save my vanity. If I'd known who you were or how to find you I'd have had my father send you a note. If it wasn't that, I'm glad. Well, there's another dance this week and I'll expect you."
"I—I'm not dancing," he stammered. "Not at the Barracks, anyhow."
The girl was puzzled; therefore Pierce summoned his courage and explained, with as brave an attempt at lightness as he could afford: "You see before you a victim of unhappy circumstance, a person to be shunned. I'm worse than a case of smallpox. I don't think you should be seen talking to me."
"What are you driving at?"
"I'm getting up the spiritual momentum necessary to tell you that I'm a thief! Truly. Anyhow, three choice gentlemen are so sure of it that they went to the trouble of perjuring themselves and having me arrested—"
"Arrested? YOU?"
"Exactly. And the evidence is very strong. I almost think I must be guilty."
"Are you?"
Pierce shook his head.
"Of course you're not. I remember, now—something father said at breakfast, but I paid no attention. You fought with that good-looking French count, didn't you?"
"Thank you for reminding me of the one cheerful feature connected with the entire affair. Yes, I raised my hand to him in anger—and let it fall, but Lieutenant Rock spoiled the whole party."
"Tell me everything, please."
Pierce was more than willing to oblige, and he began his recital at the time of his first meeting with Joe McCaskey on the beach at Dyea. While he talked the girl listened with that peculiar open-eyed meditative gravity he had noted upon their former meeting. When he had finished she cried, breathlessly:
"Why, it's as exciting as a book!"
"You think so? I don't. If I were only a clever book character I'd execute some dramatic coup and confound my enemies—book people always do. But my mind is a blank, my ingenuity is at a complete standstill. I feel perfectly foolish and impotent. To save me, I can't understand how that gold got where it was, for the cashier's cage is made of wire and the door has a spring-lock. I heard it snap back of me when I followed the Count outside. I had an insane idea that his nose would stretch if I pulled it and I believe yet it would. Well, I've spent one night in the dungeon and I'm not cut out to enjoy that mode of life. All I can think about is the Prisoner of Chillon and the Man in the Iron Mask and other distressing instances of the law's injustice. I feel as if I'd grown a gray beard in the last twelve hours. Do I look much older than when we met?"
The girl shook her head. "It's tremendously dramatic. Think what a story it will make when it's over and when you look back on it."
"Do you feel that way, too?" Pierce inquired, curiously. "As if everything is an adventure? I used to. I used to stand outside of myself and look on, but now—I'm on the inside, looking out. I suppose it's the effect of the gray beard. Experience comes fast in this country. To one thing I've made up my mind, however; when I get out of this scrape, if I ever do, I'm going away up into the hills where the wind can blow me clean, and stay there."
"It's a perfect shame!" the girl said, indignantly. "I shall tell father to fix it. He fixes everything I ask him to. He's wonderful, as you probably know."
"Inasmuch as I haven't the faintest idea who he is—"
"Why, he's Colonel Cavendish! I'm Josephine Cavendish. I thought everybody knew me."
Pierce could not restrain a start of surprise. Very humbly he inquired:
"Now that you understand who I am and what I'm charged with, do you want to—know me; be friends with me?"
"We ARE friends," Miss Cavendish warmly declared. "That's not something that may happen; it has happened. I'm peculiar about such matters; I have my own way of looking at them. And now that we're friends we're going to be friends throughout and I'm going to help you. Come along and meet mother."
"I—don't know how far my parole extends," Pierce ventured, doubtfully.
"Nonsense! There's only one authority around here. Father thinks he's it, but he isn't. I am. You're my prisoner now. Give me your word you won't try to escape—"
"Escape!" Pierce smiled broadly. "I don't much care if I never get out.Prisons aren't half as bad as they're pictured."
"Then come!"
"You really must do something for this boy Pierce Phillips." Mrs.Cavendish spoke with decision.
The newspaper which the colonel was reading was barely six weeks old, therefore he was deeply engrossed in it, and he looked up somewhat absentmindedly.
"Yes, yes. Of course, my dear," he murmured. "What does he want now?"
"Why, he wants his liberty! He wants this absurd charge against him dismissed! It's a shame to hold a boy of his character, his breeding, on the mere word of a man like Count Courteau."
Colonel Cavendish smiled quizzically. "You, too, eh?" said he.
"What do you mean by that?"
"Why, you're the fourth woman who has appealed to me since his arrest. I dare say I'll hear from others. I never saw a fellow who had the female vote so solidly behind him. I'm beginning to regard him as a sort of domestic menace."
"You surely don't believe him guilty?"
When her husband refused to commit himself Mrs. Cavendish exclaimed,"Rubbish!"
"First Josephine came to me," the colonel observed. "She was deeply indignant and considerably disappointed in me as a man and a father when I refused to quash the entire proceedings and apologize, on behalf of the Dominion Government, for the injury to the lad's feelings. She was actually peeved. What ails her I don't know. Then the Countess Courteau dropped in, and so did that 'lady dealer' from the Rialto. Now you take up his defense." The speaker paused thoughtfully for an instant. "It's bad enough to have the fellow hanging around our quarters at all hours, but Josephine actually suggested that we have him DINE with us!"
"I know. She spoke of it to me. But he isn't 'hanging around at all hours.' Josephine is interested in his case, just as I am, because—"
"My dear! He's a weigher in a saloon, a gambling-house employee. D'you think it wise to raise such a dust about him? I like the boy myself—can't help liking him—but you understand what he's been doing? He's been cutting up; going the pace. I never knew you to countenance a fellow—"
"I never saw a boy toward whom I felt so—motherly," Mrs. Cavendish said, with some irrelevance. "I don't like wild young men any better than you do, but—he isn't a thief, of that I'm sure."
"Look here." Colonel Cavendish laid down his paper, and there was more gravity than usual in his tone. "I haven't told you everything, but it's evidently time I did. Phillips was mixed up with bad associates, the very worst in town—"
"So he told me."
"He couldn't have told you what I'm about to. He had a most unfortunate affair with a dance-hall girl—one that reflects no credit upon him. He was on the straight path to ruin and going at a gallop, drinking, gambling—everything."
"All the more reason for trying to save him. Remember, you were pretty wild yourself."
"Wait! I don't say he's guilty of this charge; I want to believe him innocent—I'd like to help prove it. For that very reason it occurred to me that Laure—she's the dance-hall girl—might throw some light on the matter, so I put Rock to work on her. Well, his report wasn't pleasant. The girl talked, but what she said didn't help Phillips. She confessed that he'd been stealing right along and giving her the money."
Mrs. Cavendish was shocked, incredulous. After a moment, however, she shook her head positively and exclaimed, "I don't believe a word of it."
"She's going to swear to it."
"Her oath would be no better than her word—"
"Good Lord!" the colonel cried, testily. "Has this young imp completely hypnotized you women? The Kirby girl is frightened to death, and the Countess—well, she told me herself that her husband's jealousy was at the bottom of the whole thing. Laure, in spite of what she said to Rock, is behaving like a mad person. I dropped in at the Rialto this evening and she asked me what was the worst Pierce could expect. I made it strong, purposely, and I thought she'd faint. No, it's a nasty affair, all through. And, by Jove! to cap the climax, you and Josephine take part in it! I flatter myself that I'm democratic, but—have him here to dine! Gad! That's playing democracy pretty strong."
"It isn't fair to imply that he's nothing more than a ladies' man.They're detestable. The men like Phillips, too."
"True," Cavendish admitted. "He has the God-given faculty of making friends, and for that alone I can forgive him almost anything. It's a wonderful faculty—better than being born lucky or rich or handsome. I'm fond of him, but I've favored him all I can. If I thought Josephine were seriously interested in him—well, I wouldn't feel so friendly." The speaker laughed shortly, "No. The man who claims that girl's attention must be clean through and through. He must stand the acid test."
When his wife silently approved this sentiment the colonel picked up his paper and resumed his reading.
Pierce's friends were indeed uniformly indignant, and without exception they maintained their faith in his innocence; most of them, in fact, actually applied themselves to the task of clearing him of Courteau's charge. But of the latter the one who applied herself the most thoughtfully, the most seriously, was the Countess Courteau. Having reasoned that she herself was indirectly responsible for his plight, she set about aiding him in a thoroughly feminine and indirect manner. It was an unpleasant undertaking; she took it up with intense abhorrence; it required her utmost determination to carry it on. Her plan had formed itself immediately she had learned what had happened; her meeting with the Count that evening and her unexpected solicitude, her unbidden attention to his injury, were a part of it. As time went on she assumed an air that amazed the man. She meekly accepted his reproaches, she submitted to his abuse; cautiously, patiently she paved the way to a reconciliation.
It was by no means easy, for she and Henri had long lived in what was little better than a state of open hostility, and she had been at no pains to conceal the utter disregard and contempt she felt for him. He, of course, had resented it; her change of demeanor now awoke his suspicion. He was a vain and shallow person, however; his conceit was thoroughly Latin, and Hilda's perseverance was in a way rewarded. Slowly, grudgingly he gave ground before her subtle advances—they were, in fact, less advances on her part than opportunities for him—he experienced a feeling of triumph and began to assume a masterful air that was indeed trying to one of her disposition. Before his friends he boasted that his energetic defense of his honor had worked a marvel in his home; in her presence he made bold to take on a swagger and an authority hitherto unknown.
Hilda stood it, with what cost no one could possibly understand. In some manner she managed to convey the idea that he dominated her and that she cringed spiritually before him. She permitted him occasionally to surprise a look of bewilderment, almost of fright, in her eyes, and this tickled the man immensely. With a fatuous complacency, thoroughly typical, he told himself that she feared and respected him—was actually falling in love with him all over again. When he felt the impulse to scout this idea he went to his mirror and examined himself critically, Why not? he asked himself. He was very pleasing. Women had always been wax in his hands; he had a personality, an air, an irresistible something that had won him many conquests. It seemed not unlikely that Hilda had been shocked into a new and keener realization of his many admirable qualities and was ready to make up, if, or when, he graciously chose to permit her.
On the very evening that Colonel Cavendish and his wife were discussing Pierce Phillips' affair, Courteau, feeling in a particularly jubilant mood, decided to put the matter to a test; therefore he surprised his wife by walking into her room unannounced.
"My dear," he began, "it's high time we had a talk."
"Indeed!" said she. "What about?"
"About you, about me, about our affairs. Are we husband and wife or are we not? I ask you."
With a queer flicker of her eyelids she answered: "Why—of course. You have appeared to forget it sometimes, but—"
"No reproaches, please. The past is gone. Neither of us is without blame. You've had your fling, too, but I've shown you that I'm made of stern stuff and will tolerate no further foolishness. I am a different Courteau than you ever knew. I've had my rebirth. Now then, our present mode of life is not pleasing to me, for I'm a fellow of spirit. Think of me—in the attitude of a dependent!"
"I share generously with you. I give you money—"
"The very point," he broke in, excitedly. "You give; I accept. You direct; I obey. It must end now, at once. I cannot play the accompaniment while you sing. Either I close my eyes to your folly and forgive, utterly—either we become man and wife again and I assume leadership—or I make different plans for the future."
"Just what do you propose, Henri?"
The fellow shrugged. "I offer you a reconciliation; that, to begin with. You've had your lesson and I flatter myself that you see me in a new light. The brave can afford to be generous. I—well, I've always had a feeling for you; I've never been blind to your attractions, my dear. Lately I've even experienced something of the—er—the old spell. Understand me? It's a fact.' I'm actually taken with you, Hilda; I have the fire of an impetuous lover."
Courteau's eyes gleamed; there was an unusual warmth to his gaze and a vibrance to his tone. He curled his mustache, he swelled his chest, he laughed lightly but deeply. "What do you say, eh? I'm not altogether displeasing. No? You see something in me to admire? I thrill you? Confess."
The wife lowered her eyes. "You have some power—" she murmured.
"Power! Precisely." The Count nodded and there was a growing vivacity and sparkle to him. "That is my quality—a power to charm, a power to achieve, a power to triumph. Well, I choose now to win you again for myself. It is my whim. To rekindle a love which one has lost is a test of any man's power, n'est-ce pas? You are fond of me. I see it. Am I not right, my sweet?"
He laid his soft white hands upon his wife's shoulders and bent an ardent gaze upon her. Hilda faced him with an odd smile; her cheeks were white, her ice-blue eyes were very wide and bright and they held a curious expression.
"Come! A kiss!" he persisted. "Oho! You tremble, you shrink like a maiden. I, too, am exhilarated, but—" With a chuckle he folded her in his embrace and she did not resist. After a moment he resumed: "This is quite too amusing. I wish my friends to see and to understand. Put on your prettiest dress—"
"What for?"
"We are going down-town. We shall celebrate our reunion—we shall drink to it publicly. All Dawson shall take note. They have said, 'Courteau is a loafer, a ne'er-do-well, and he permits another to win his wife away from him.' I propose to show them."
"You mean you propose to show me off. Is that it? Another conquest, eh?"
"Have it as you will. I—"
"I won't go," Hilda cried, furiously. She freed herself from his arms. "You know I won't go. You'd like to parade me in the places you frequent—saloons, dance-halls, gambling-houses. The idea!"
"You won't? Tut, tut! What is this?" Courteau cried, angrily. "Rebellious so soon? Is this recent change of demeanor assumed? Have you been fooling me?"
"What change?" the woman parried. "I don't know—"
"Oh yes, you do! For the first time in years you have treated me as a husband should be treated; half-measures will no longer satisfy me. We have arrived at the show-up. Are you a miserable Delilah or—"
"Please don't ask me to go out with you, Henri," the woman pleaded, in genuine distress, now that she saw he was in earnest. "To be paraded like an animal on a chain! Think of my feelings."
"Indeed! Think of mine," he cried. "This is my hour, my triumph; I propose to make it complete. Now that I carefully consider it, I will put you to the test. You've had a fine time; if you pay a price for it, whose fault is that? No! One must be cruel to be kind."
"Cruel! Kind!" Hilda sneered. "It merely pleases you to humiliate me."
"Very well!" blazed the Count. "If it pleases me, so be it. That is my attitude now and henceforth—my will is to be law. Come! Your prettiest dress and your prettiest smile, for we celebrate. Yes, and money, too; I'm as poverty-ridden as usual. We will treat my friends, we will gamble here and there, we will watch the shows to an accompaniment of popping corks so that every one shall see us and say: 'Yonder is Courteau and his wife. They have made up and she adores him like a mistress. Parbleu! The man has a way with women, eh!' It shall be a great night for me."
"Are you really serious?"
Courteau stamped his felt-shod foot. "Anger me no more."
Hilda's face was colorless, her eyes were still glowing with that peculiar light of defiance, of desperation, of curiosity; nevertheless, she turned away and began to dress herself.
Courteau was not disappointed. His appearance in the river-front resorts, accompanied by his wife, created a sensation indeed. And Hilda's bearing, under the circumstances, added to his gratification, for, now that the die was cast, she surrendered completely, she clung to him as if feeling a new dependence, and this filled his cup to overflowing. It was an outrageous thing to do; no one save a Courteau would have thought of subjecting the woman who bore his name to such a humiliation. But he was a perverse individual; his mind ran in crooked courses; he took a bizarre delight in the unusual, and morality of the common sort he knew not. To smirch her, even a little bit, to subject her to seeming disgrace, not only taught her a lesson, but also united them more closely, so he told himself. That he had the ability to compel her to do anything against her will immensely tickled his vanity, for her stubborn independence had always been a trial to him. He knew that her social status was not of the highest; nevertheless, her reputation was far better than his, and among all except the newest arrivals in Dawson she bore a splendid name. To be, himself, the cause of blackening that name, in order to match his own, gratified his feelings of resentment. All in all, it was a night of nights for him and he was at no pains to conceal his satisfaction. From one place to another he led her, taking malicious enjoyment from the distress he caused.
Courteau was not loud nor blatant; nevertheless, his triumphant demeanor, his proprietary air, fairly shouted the fact that he had tamed this woman and was exhibiting her against her inclinations. At every bar he forced her to drink with him and with his friends; he even called up barroom loafers whom he did not know and introduced them with an elaborate flourish. The money he spent was hers, of course, but he squandered it royally, leaving a trail of empty champagne-bottles behind. Champagne, at this time, sold for twenty dollars a quart and, although Hilda saw her earnings melting away with appalling rapidity, she offered no protest. Together they flung their chips broadcast upon the gambling-tables, and their winnings, which were few, went to buy more popularity with the satellites who trailed them.
As time passed and Hilda continued to meet the test, her husband's satisfaction gained a keener edge. He beamed, he strutted, he twisted his mustache to needle-points. She was a thoroughbred, that he assured himself. But, after all, why shouldn't she do this for him? The women with whom he was accustomed to associate would not have counted such an evening as this a sacrifice, and, even had they so considered it, he was in the habit of exacting sacrifices from women. They liked it; it proved their devotion.
Her subjugation was made complete when he led her into a box at the Rialto Theater and insisted upon the two McCaskeys joining them. The brothers at first declined, but by this time Courteau's determination carried all before it.
Joe halted him outside the box door, however, to inquire into the meaning of the affair.
"It means this," the Count informed him. "I have effected a complete reconciliation with my adorable wife. Women are all alike—they fear the iron, they kiss the hand that smites them. I have made her my obedient slave, mon ami. That's what it means."
"It don't look good to me," Joe said, morosely. "She's got an ace buried somewhere."
"Eh? What are you trying to say?"
"I've got a hunch she's salving you, Count. She's stuck on Phillips, like I told you, and she's trying to get a peek at your hole card."
It was characteristic of Courteau that he should take instant offense at this reflection upon his sagacity, this doubt of his ability as a charmer.
"You insult my intelligence," he cried, stiffly, "and, above all, I possess intelligence. You—do not. No. You are coarse, you are gross. I am full of sentiment—"
"Rats!" McCaskey growled. "I get that way myself sometimes. Sentiment like yours costs twenty dollars a quart. But this ain't the time for a spree; we got business on our hands."
The Count eyed his friend with a frown. "It is a personal affair and concerns our business not in the least. I am a revengeful person; I have pride and I exact payment from those who wound it. I brought my wife here as a punishment and I propose to make her drink with you. Your company is not agreeable at any time, my friend, and she does you an honor—"
"Cut out that tony talk," Joe said, roughly. "You're a broken-hipped stiff and you're trying to grab her bank-roll. Don't you s'pose I'm on? My company was all right until you got your hand in the hotel cash-drawer; now I'm coarse. Maybe she's on the square—she fell for you once—but I bet she's working you. Make sure of this, my high and mighty nobleman"—for emphasis the speaker laid a heavy hand upon the Count's shoulder and thrust his disagreeable face closer—"that you keep your mouth shut. Savvy? Don't let her sweat you—"
The admonitory words ended abruptly, for the door of the box reopened and Joe found the Countess Courteau facing him. For an instant their glances met and in her eyes the man saw an expression uncomfortably reminiscent of that day at Sheep Camp when she had turned public wrath upon his brother Jim's head. But the look was fleeting; she turned it upon her husband, and the Count, with an apology for his delay, entered the box, dragging McCaskey with him.
Frank, it appeared, shared his brother's suspicions; the two exchanged glances as Joe entered; then when the little party had adjusted itself to the cramped quarters they watched the Countess curiously, hoping to analyze her true intent. But in this they were unsuccessful. She treated both of them with a cool, impartial formality, quite natural under the circumstances, but in no other way did she appear conscious of that clash on the Chilkoot trail. It was not a pleasant situation at best, and Joe especially was ill at ease, but Courteau continued his spendthrift role, keeping the waiters busy, and under the influence of his potations the elder McCaskey soon regained some of his natural sang-froid. All three men drank liberally, and by the time the lower floor had been cleared for dancing they were in a hilarious mood. They laughed loudly, they shouted greetings across to other patrons of the place, they flung corks at the whirling couples below.
Meanwhile, they forced the woman to imbibe with them. Joe, in spite of his returning confidence, kept such close watch of her that she could not spill her glass into the bucket, except rarely. Hilda hated alcohol and its effect; she was not accustomed to drinking. As she felt her intoxication mounting she became fearful that the very medium upon which she had counted for success would prove to be her undoing. Desperately she battled to retain her wits. More than once, with a reckless defiance utterly foreign to her preconceived plans, she was upon the point of hurling the bubbling contents of her glass into the flushed faces about her and telling these men how completely she was shamming, but she managed to resist the temptation. That she felt such an impulse at all made her fearful of committing some action equally rash, of dropping some word that would prove fatal.
It was a hideous ordeal. She realized that already the cloak of decency, of respectability, which she had been at such pains to preserve during these difficult years, was gone, lost for good and all. She had made herself a Lady Godiva; by this night of conspicuous revelry she had undone everything. Not only had she condoned the sins and the shortcomings of her dissolute husband, but also she had put herself on a level with him and with the fallen women of the town—his customary associates. Courteau had done this to her. It had been his proposal. She could have throttled him where he sat.
The long night dragged on interminably. Like leeches the two McCaskeys clung to their prodigal host, and not until the early hours of morning, when the Count had become sodden, sullen, stupefied, and when they were in a condition little better, did they permit him to leave them. How Hilda got him home she scarcely knew, for she, too, had all but lost command of her senses. There were moments when she fought unavailingly against a mental numbness, a stupor that rolled upward and suffused her like a cloud of noxious vapors, leaving her knees weak, her hands clumsy, her vision blurred; again waves of deathly illness surged over her. Under and through it all, however, her subconscious will to conquer remained firm. Over and over she told herself:
"I'll have the truth and then—I'll make him pay."
Courteau followed his wife into her room, and there his maudlin manner changed. He roused himself and smiled at her fatuously; into his eyes flamed a desire, into his cheeks came a deeper flush. He pawed at her caressingly; he voiced thick, passionate protestations. Hilda had expected nothing less; it was for this that she had bled her flesh and crucified her spirit these many hours.
"You're—wonderful woman," the man mumbled as he swayed with her in his arms. "Got all the old charm and more. Game, too!" He laughed foolishly, then in drunken gravity asserted: "Well, I'm the man, the stronger vessel. To turn hate into love, that—"
"You've taken your price. You've had your hour," she told him. Her head was thrown back, her eyes were closed, her teeth were clenched as if in a final struggle for self-restraint.
Courteau pressed his lips to hers; then in a sudden frenzy he crushed her closer and fell to kissing her cheeks, her neck, her throat. He mistook her shudder of abhorrence for a thrill responsive to his passion, and hiccoughed:
"You're mine again, all mine, and—I'm mad about you. I'm aflame. This is like the night of our marriage, what?"
"Are you satisfied, now that you've made me suffer? Do you still imagine I care for that foolish boy?"
"Phillips? Bah! A noisy swine." Again the Count chuckled, but this time his merriment ran away with him until he shook and until tears came to his eyes.
Without reason Hilda joined in his laughter. Together they stood rocking, giggling, snickering, as if at some excruciating jest.
"He—he tried to steal you—from me. From ME. Imagine it! Then he struck me. Well, where is he now, eh?"
"I never dreamed that you cared enough for me to—do what you did. To risk so much."
"Risk?"
Hilda nodded, and her loose straw-gold hair brushed Courteau's cheek. "Don't pretend any longer. I knew from the start. But you were jealous. When a woman loses the power to excite jealousy it's a sign she's growing old and ugly and losing her fire. She can face anything except that."
"Fire!" Henri exclaimed. "Parbleu! Don't I know you to be a volcano?"
"How did you manage the affair—that fellow's ruin? It frightens me to realize that you can accomplish such things."
The Count pushed his wife away. "What are you talking about?" he demanded.
"Oh, very well! Carry it out if you wish," she said, with a careless shrug. "But you're not fooling me in the least. On the contrary, I admire your spirit. Now then, I'm thirsty. And you are, too." With a smile she evaded his outstretched arms and left the room. She was back in a moment with a bottle and two glasses. The latter she filled; her own she raised with a gesture, and Courteau blindly followed suit.
In spite of his deep intoxication the man still retained the embers of suspicion, and when she spoke of Pierce Phillips they began to glow and threatened to burst into flame. Cunningly, persistently she played upon him, however. She enticed, she coquetted, she cajoled; she maddened him with her advances; she teased him with her repulses; she drugged him with her smiles, her fragrant charms. Time and again he was upon the point of surrender, but caught himself in time.
She won at last. She dragged the story from him, bit by bit, playing upon his vanity, until he gabbled boastfully and took a crapulent delight in repeating the details. It was a tale distorted and confused, but the truth was there. She made an excuse to leave him, finally, and remained out of the room for a long time. When she returned it was to find him sprawled across her bed and fast asleep.
For a moment she held dizzily to the bedpost and stared down at him. Her mask had slipped now, her face was distorted with loathing, and so deep were her feelings that she could not bear to touch him, even to cover him over. Leaving him spread-eagled as he was, she staggered out of his unclean presence.
Hilda was deathly sick; objects were gyrating before her eyes; she felt a hideous nightmare sensation of unreality, and was filled with an intense contempt, a tragic disgust for herself. Pausing at the foot of the stairs, she strove to gather herself together; then slowly, passionately she cursed the name of Pierce Phillips.
Tom Linton and Jerry Quirk toiled slowly up the trail toward their cabin. Both men were bundled thickly in clothing, both bewhiskered visages bore grotesque breath-masks of ice; even their eyebrows were hoary with frost. The partners were very tired.
Pausing in the chip-littered space before their door, they gazed down the trail to a mound of gravel which stood out raw and red against the universal whiteness. This mound was in the form of a truncated cone and on its level top was a windlass and a pole bucket track. From beneath the windlass issued a cloud of smoke which mounted in billows, as if breathed forth from a concealed chimney—smoke from the smothered drift fires laid against the frozen face of pay dirt forty feet below the surface. Evidently this fire was burning to suit the partners; after watching it a moment, Tom took a buck-saw and fell stiffly to work upon a dry spruce log which lay on the saw-buck; Jerry spat on his mittens and began to split the blocks as they fell.
Darkness was close at hand, but both men were so fagged that they found it impossible to hurry. Neither did they speak. Patiently, silently they sawed and chopped, then carried the wood into the chilly cabin; while one lit the lamp and went for a sack of ice, the other kindled a fire. These tasks accomplished, by mutual consent, but still without exchanging a word, they approached the table. From the window-sill Tom took a coin and balanced it upon his thumb and forefinger; then, in answer to his bleak, inquiring glance, Jerry nodded and he snapped the piece into the air. While it was still spinning Jerry barked, sharply:
"Tails!"
Both gray heads bent and near-sightedly examined the coin.
"Tails she is," Tom announced. He replaced the silver piece, crossed the room to his bunk, seated himself upon it, and remained there while Jerry, with a sudden access of cheerfulness, hustled to the stove, warmed himself, and then began culinary preparations.
These preparations were simple, but precise; also they were deliberate. Jerry cut one slice of ham, he measured out just enough coffee for one person, he opened one can of corn, and he mixed a half-pan of biscuits. Tom watched him from beneath a frown, meanwhile tugging moodily at the icicles which still clung to his lips. His corner of the cabin was cold, hence it was a painful process. When he had disposed of the last lump and when he could no longer restrain his irritation, he broke out:
"Of course you had to make BREAD, didn't you? Just because you know I'm starving."
"It come tails, didn't it?" Jerry inquired, with aggravating pleasantness. "It ain't my fault you're starving, and you got all night to cook what YOU want—after I'm done.Idon't care if you bake a layer cake and freeze ice-cream. You can put your front feet in the trough and champ your swill; you can root and waller in it, for all of ME.Iwon't hurry you, not in the least."
"It's come tails every time lately," grumbled the former speaker.
Jerry giggled. "I always was right lucky, except in pickin' pardners," he declared. In a cracked and tuneless voice he began humming a roundelay, evidently intended to express gaiety and contentment.
Unable longer to withstand his gnawing hunger, Tom secured for himself a large round hardtack, and with this he tried to ward off the pangs of starvation. But he had small success with the endeavor, for his teeth were poor. He flung the thing of adamant aside, finally, and cried, testily:
"My God! Ain't it bad enough to EAT a phonograph record without having to listen to the damn' machine? Shut up, will you? You've got the indecentest singing voice I ever heard."
"Say!" Jerry looked up belligerently. "You don't have to listen to my singin'. There's plenty of room outside—all the room from here south to Seattle. And you don't have to gum that pilot-bread if your teeth is loose. You can boil yourself a pot of mush—when your turn comes. You got a free hand. As for me, I eat anything I want to and I SING anything I want to whenever I want to, and I'd like to see anybody stop me. We don't have to toss up for turns at singin'." More loudly he raised his high-pitched voice; ostentatiously he rattled his dishes.
Tom settled back in exasperated silence, but as time wore on and his hungry nostrils were assailed with the warm, tantalizing odor of frying ham fat he fidgeted nervously.
Having prepared a meal to his liking, Jerry set the table with a single plate, cup, and saucer, then seated himself with a luxurious grunt. He ate slowly; he rolled every mouthful with relish; he fletcherized it with calculated deliberation; he paused betweentimes to blow loudly upon his coffee and to smack his lips—sounds that in themselves were a provocation and an insult to his listener. When he had cleaned up his interminable repast and was finishing the last scrap, Tom rose and made for the stove.
Jerry watched him, paralyzed in mid-motion, until his partner's hand was outstretched, then he suddenly shouted:
"Get away from there!"
Tom started. "What for?" he queried, a light of rebellion flaring into his eyes. "Ain't you through with your supper? You been at it long enough."
"You see me eatin', don't you? After I get fed up and my teeth picked I got all my dishes to wash."
"That wasn't our arrangement."
"It was so."
"You'll eat all night," Tom complained, almost tearfully. "You'll set there and gorge till you bust."
"That's my privilege. I don't aim to swaller my grub whole. I'm shy a few teeth and some of the balance don't meet, so I can't consume vittles like I was a pulp-mill. I didn't start this row—"
"Who did?"
"Now ain't that a fool question?" Jerry leaned back comfortably and began an elaborate vacuum-cleaning process of what teeth he retained. "Who starts all our rows, if I don't? No. I'm as easy-going as a greased eel, and 'most anybody can get along with me, but, tread on my tail and I swop ends, pronto. That's me. I go my own even way, but I live up to my bargains and I see to it that others do the same. You get the hell away from that stove!"
Tom abandoned his purpose, and with the resignation of a martyr returned to teeter upon the edge of his bunk. He remained there, glum, malevolent, watchful, until his cabin-mate had leisurely cleared the table, washed and put away his dishes; then with a sigh of fat repletion, unmistakably intended as a provocation, the tormentor lit his pipe and stretched himself luxuriously upon his bed.
Even then Tom made no move. He merely glowered at the recumbent figure.Jerry blew a cloud of smoke, then waved a generous gesture.
"Now then, fly at it, Mr. Linton," he said, sweetly. "I've et my fill;I've had an ample sufficiency; I'm through and in for the night."
"Oh no, you ain't! You get up and wash that skillet."
Mr. Quirk started guiltily.
"Hustle your creaking joints and scrub it out."
"Pshaw! I only fried a slice—"
"Scrub it!" Linton ordered.
This command Jerry obeyed, although it necessitated heating more water, a procedure which, of course, he maliciously prolonged. "Waited till I was all spread out, didn't you," he sneered, as he stooped over the wood-box. "That's like you. Some people are so small-calibered they'd rattle around in a gnat's bladder like a mustard seed in a bass drum."
"I'm particular who I eat after," Tom said, "so be sure you scrub it clean."
"Thought you'd spoil my smoke. Well, I can smoke standin' on my head and enjoy it." There was a silence, broken only by the sound of Jerry's labors. At last he spoke: "Once again I repeat what I told you yesterday. I took the words out of your own mouth. You said the woman was a hellion—"
"I never did. Even if I had I wouldn't allow a comparative stranger to apply such an epithet to a member of my family."
"You did say it. And she ain't a member of your family."
Tom's jaws snapped. "If patience is a virtue," he declared, in quivering anger, "I'll slide into heaven on skids. Assassination ought not to be a crime; it's warranted, like abating a nuisance; it ain't even a misdemeanor—sometimes. She was a noble woman—"
"Hellion! I got it on the authority of her own husband—you!"
Tom rose and stamped over to the stove; he slammed its door and clattered the coffee-pot to drown this hateful persistence. Having had the last word, as usual, Jerry retreated in satisfaction to his bed and stretched his aching frame upon it.
The dingy cabin was fragrant with the odor of cooking food for a second time that evening when the sound of voices and a knock at the door brought both old men to their feet.
Before they could answer, the door flew open and in and out of the frosty evening came Rouletta Kirby and 'Poleon Doret. The girl's cheeks were rosy, her eyes were sparkling; she warmly greeted first one partner, then the other. Pausing, she sniffed the air hungrily.