'sir,' nor likewise 'mister.' My name's Waseche Bill. It's a good
name--good enough to live by, an' to be called by--an' good enough to
write at the bottom of a check. What's yourn?"

"Percival Lafollette."

"Percival Lafollette," repeated Waseche, gravely rolling the name upon
his tongue. "'Was you in the original Floradora Sextette?"

"Why, no, sir----"

"No what?"

"No--no--" stammered Percival, in confusion.

"That's it--no!--just plain _no_! When you've got that said, you're
through with that there partic'lar train of thought."

"No--they were girls--the Floradora Sextette."

"So they was," agreed Waseche, solemnly. "Did you bring the mail over?"

"Yes, s--yes, here it is." He placed a handful of letters on the pine
table that served as Waseche's desk.

"All right, just take off your cloak an' bonnet, an' pry the lid off
that there infernal machine, an' we'll git to work."

A few minutes later the new stenographer stood at attention, notebook in
hand. Waseche Bill, who had been watching him closely, noted that he
shivered slightly, as he removed his overcoat, and that he coughed
violently into a handkerchief. Glancing into the pale face, he asked
abruptly: "Sick--lunger?"

Percival nodded, and Waseche motioned him close, and when he stood at
his side reached out and unbuttoned his vest, then his thin shirt, and
took his undershirt between his thumb and finger. Then he snorted in
disgust. "Look a-here, young fellow, you an' me might's well have it
out. I aint' a-goin' to have no lunger workin' fer me!"

At the words, the other turned a shade paler, buttoned his clothing, and
reached for his overcoat.

"Come back here! Where you goin'?"

"Why--I thought----"

"You ain't hired to think. I've got a shanty full of thinkers over
acrost the crick. You're hired to spell. An' after a while you'll learn
that you'll know more about what I'm sayin' if you wait till I git
through. In the first place, fire that there book an' pencil over in the
corner, an' put on your coat an' hat an' hit over to Scotty MacDougall's
store an' tell him to give you a reg'lar man's outfit of clothes. No
wonder you're a lunger; dressin' in them hen-skins! Git plenty of good
thick flannel underwear, wool socks, _mukluks_, a couple of pairs of
good britches, mackinaw, cap, mittens, sheep-lined overcoat--the whole
business, an' charge 'em up to me. You didn't come through from
Fairbanks in them things?"

"Yes, Mr. Demeree----"