losely when he talked,
studying him, sometimes with more than a hint of approbation, at others
with a look that was puzzled, seeming to be working at a problem. The
giant's liking for her, boyish at times, or swiftly changing to bolder
appraisal, grew daily.

The girl, Rainey decided, was humoring Lund, seeking to know how with
her feminine methods she might control him, keep him within bounds. Her
coldness, it seemed, she had cast aside as an expedient that might prove
too provoking and worthless.

And Rainey's valuation of her resources increased. She was handling her
woman's weapons admirably, yet when he sometimes, at night, under the
cabin lamp, saw the smoldering light glowing in Lund's agate eyes, he
knew that she was playing a dangerous game.

"What d'ye figger on doin' with yore share, Rainey?" Lund asked him the
night that they passed Nome. It was stormy weather in the Strait, and
the _Karluk_ was snugged down under treble reefs, fighting her way
north. Ice in the Narrows was scarce, though Lund predicted broken floes
once they got through. The cabin was cozy, with a stove going. Peggy
Simms was busied with some sewing, the canary and the plants gave the
place a domestic atmosphere, and Lund, smoking comfortably, was
eminently at ease.

"'Cordin' to the way the men figgered it out," he went on, "though I
reckon they're under the mark more'n over it, you'll have forty
thousan' dollars. That's quite a windfall, though nothin' to Miss Peggy,
here, or me, for that matter. I s'pose you got it all spent already."

"I don't know that I have," said Rainey. "But I think, if all goes well,
I'll get a place up in the Coast Range, in the redwoods looking over the
sea, and write. Not newspaper stuff, but what I've always wanted to.
Stories. Yarns of adventure!"

Peggy Simms looked up.

"You've never done that?" she asked.

"Not satisfactorily. I suppose that genius burns in a garret, but I
don't imagine myself a genius and I don't like garrets. I've an idea I
can write better when I don't have to stand the bread-and-butter strain
of routine."

"Goin' to write second-hand stuff?" asked Lund. "Why don't you _live_
what you write? I don't see how yo're goin' to git under a man's skin by
squattin' in a bungalow with a Jap servant, a porcelain bathtub, an'
breakfast in bed. Why don't you travel an' see stuff as it is? How in
blazes are you goin' to write Adventure if you don't live it?

"Me, I'm goin' to git a scho