"In the safe, all but that six I have all thawed and ready for you any
time you sing out."

"I don't want 'em for myself," Wild Water breathed in a still lower
voice. "Shir 'em up and present 'em to Miss Arral there."

"I'll attend to it personally myself," Slavovitch assured him.

"An' don't forget--compliments of me," Wild Water concluded, relaxing
his detaining clutch on the proprietor's shoulder.

Pretty Lucille Arral was gazing forlornly at the strip of breakfast
bacon and the tinned mashed potatoes on her plate when Slavovitch placed
before her two shirred eggs.

"Compliments of Mr. Wild Water," they at the next table heard him say.

Smoke acknowledged to himself that it was a fine bit of acting--the
quick, joyous flash in the face of her, the impulsive turn of the head,
the spontaneous forerunner of a smile that was only checked by a superb
self-control which resolutely drew her face back so that she could say
something to the restaurant proprietor.

Smoke felt the kick of Wild Water's moccasined foot under the table.

"Will she eat 'em?--that's the question--will she eat 'em?" the latter
whispered agonizingly.

And with sidelong glances they saw Lucille Arral hesitate, almost push
the dish from her, then surrender to its lure.

"I'll take them eggs," Wild Water said to Smoke. "The contract holds.
Did you see her? Did you see her! She almost smiled. I know her. It's
all fixed. Two more eggs to-morrow an' she'll forgive an' make up. If
she wasn't here I'd shake hands, Smoke, I'm that grateful. You ain't a
robber; you're a philanthropist."

Smoke returned jubilantly up the hill to the cabin, only to find Shorty
playing solitaire in black despair. Smoke had long since learned that
whenever his partner got out the cards for solitaire it was a warning
signal that the bottom had dropped out of the world.

"Go 'way, don't talk to me," was the first rebuff Smoke received.

But Shorty soon thawed into a freshet of speech.

"It's all off with the big Swede," he groaned. "The corner's busted.
They'll be sellin' sherry an' egg in all the saloons to-morrow at a
dollar a flip. They ain't no starvin' orphan child in Dawson that won't
be wrappin' its tummy around eggs. What d'ye think I run into?--a
geezer with three thousan' eggs--d'ye get me? Three thousan', an' just
freighted in from Forty Mile."

"Fairy stories," Smoke doubted.

"Fairy hell! I seen them eggs. Gautereaux's his name--a whackin' big,
blue-ey