ime I suppose I was madly exultant; then
afterwards came the shame, and I tossed awake half the night."

"And finally?"

"Pride, I guess. I couldn't help it, couldn't down it. I awoke in the
morning feeling as though I had won my spurs. In a subconscious way I
was inordinately proud of myself, and time and again, mentally, I
caught myself throwing chests. Then came the shame again, and I tried
to reason back my self-respect. And last of all, pride. The fight was
fair and open. It was none of my seeking. I was forced into it by the
best of motives. I am not sorry, and I would repeat it if necessary."

"And rightly so." Frona's eyes were sparkling. "And how did Mr. St.
Vincent acquit himself?"

"He? . . . . Oh, I suppose all right, creditably. I was too busy
watching my other self to take notice."

"But he saw you."

"Most likely so. I acknowledge my negligence. I should have done
better, the chances are, had I thought it would have been of interest
to you--pardon me. Just my bungling wit. The truth is, I was too much
of a greenhorn to hold my own and spare glances on my neighbors."

So Corliss went away, glad that he had not spoken, and keenly
appreciating St. Vincent's craft whereby he had so adroitly forestalled
adverse comment by telling the story in his own modest, self-effacing
way.

Two men and a woman! The most potent trinity of factors in the
creating of human pathos and tragedy! As ever in the history of man,
since the first father dropped down from his arboreal home and walked
upright, so at Dawson. Necessarily, there were minor factors, not
least among which was Del Bishop, who, in his aggressive way, stepped
in and accelerated things. This came about in a trail-camp on the way
to Miller Creek, where Corliss was bent on gathering in a large number
of low-grade claims which could only be worked profitably on a large
scale.

"I'll not be wastin' candles when I make a strike, savve!" the
pocket-miner remarked savagely to the coffee, which he was settling
with a chunk of ice. "Not on your life, I guess rather not!"

"Kerosene?" Corliss queried, running a piece of bacon-rind round the
frying-pan and pouring in the batter.

"Kerosene, hell! You won't see my trail for smoke when I get a gait on
for God's country, my wad in my poke and the sunshine in my eyes. Say!
How'd a good juicy tenderloin strike you just now, green onions, fried
potatoes, and fixin's on the side? S'help me