I thought your claim was nearer heaven."

"The two are not far apart. 'Death, like a narrow sea, divides.' But my
reminiscences were getting historical, which you failed to remark. I
ain't no Wolfe and Pierre ain't no Montcalm, nor the Heights of Abraham
ain't the Blue Goose. Pierre's a hog. At least, he's a close second. A
hog eats snakes and likewise frogs. Pierre's only got as far as frogs,
last I heard. Pierre's bad. Morrison's bad. Luna ain't. He thinks he is;
but he ain't. I'm not posting you nor nothing. I'm only meditating out
loud. That's all."

They entered the mill boarding-house. Bennie, the cook, greeted Zephyr
effusively.

"Goggles invited me to pay my respects to you," Zephyr remarked. "I'm
empty, and I'm thinking you can satisfy my longing as nothing else can
do."

Zephyr addressed himself to Bennie's viands. At last he rose from the
table.

"To eat and to sleep are the chief ends of man. I have eaten, and now I
see I am tired. With your consent, uttered or unexpressed, I'll wrap the
drapery of my bunk around me and take a snooze. And say, Goggles," he
added, "if, the next time you inventory stock, you are shy a sack of
flour and a side of bacon, you can remark to the company that
prospectors is thick around here, and that prospectors is prone to evil
as the sparks fly upward. That's where the flour and bacon are going. Up
to where St. Peter can smell them cooking; leastways he can if he hangs
his nose over the wall and the wind's right."

CHAPTER III

_Elise_

Bennie was an early riser, as became a faithful cook; but, early as he
usually was, this morning he was startled into wakefulness by a jarring
chug, as Zephyr, with a relieved grunt, dropped a squashy sack on the
floor near his bunk. Bennie sprang to a sitting posture, rubbing his
sleepy eyes to clear his vision; but, before he could open his eyes or
his mouth beyond a startled ejaculation, Zephyr had departed. He soon
reappeared. There was another chug, another grunt, and another
departure. Four times this was repeated. Then Zephyr seated himself on
the bunk, and, pushing back his sombrero, mopped his perspiring brow.

"What the--" Bennie started in, but Zephyr's uplifted hand restrained
him.

"The race is not to the swift, Julius Benjamin. The wise hound holds his
yap till he smells a hot foot. Them indecisive sacks is hot footses,
Julius Benjamin; but it isn't your yap, not by quite some."

"What's up, Zephyr?" asked Benn