a meat-eater, I am."

VI. THE RACE FOR NUMBER THREE.

"Huh! Get on to the glad rags!"

Shorty surveyed his partner with simulated disapproval, and Smoke,
vainly attempting to rub the wrinkles out of the pair of trousers he had
just put on, was irritated.

"They sure fit you close for a second-hand buy," Shorty went on. "What
was the tax?"

"One hundred and fifty for the suit," Smoke answered. "The man was
nearly my own size. I thought it was remarkably reasonable. What are you
kicking about?"

"Who? Me? Oh, nothin'. I was just thinkin' it was goin' some for a
meat-eater that hit Dawson in an ice-jam, with no grub, one suit of
underclothes, a pair of mangy moccasins, an' overalls that looked
like they'd been through the wreck of the Hesperus. Pretty gay front,
pardner. Pretty gay front. Say--?"

"What do you want now?" Smoke demanded testily.

"What's her name?"

"There isn't any her, my friend. I'm to have dinner at Colonel Bowie's,
if you want to know. The trouble with you, Shorty, is you're envious
because I'm going into high society and you're not invited."

"Ain't you some late?" Shorty queried with concern.

"What do you mean?"

"For dinner. They'll be eatin' supper when you get there."

Smoke was about to explain with crudely elaborate sarcasm when he caught
the twinkle in the other's eye. He went on dressing, with fingers that
had lost their deftness, tying a Windsor tie in a bow-knot at the throat
of his soft cotton shirt.

"Wisht I hadn't sent all my starched shirts to the laundry," Shorty
murmured sympathetically. "I might 'a' fitted you out."

By this time Smoke was straining at a pair of shoes. The woollen socks
were too thick to go into them. He looked appealingly at Shorty, who
shook his head.

"Nope. If I had thin ones I wouldn't lend 'em to you. Back to the
moccasins, pardner. You'd sure freeze your toes in skimpy-fangled gear
like that."

"I paid fifteen dollars for them, second hand," Smoke lamented.

"I reckon they won't be a man not in moccasins."

"But there are to be women, Shorty. I'm going to sit down and eat with
real live women--Mrs. Bowie, and several others, so the Colonel told
me."

"Well, moccasins won't spoil their appetite none," was Shorty's comment.
"Wonder what the Colonel wants with you?"

"I don't know, unless he's heard about my finding Surprise Lake. It will
take a fortune to drain it, and the Guggenheims are out for investment."

"Reckon that