third winter on the Yukon, and this, of
course, has left him lame. It means that he's not a great deal of good
when it comes to working the land, but he's a clever carpenter, and a
good cement-worker, and can chore about milking the cows and looking
after the stock and repairing the farm implements. Many a night, after
supper, he tells us about the Klondike in the old days, about the
stampedes of ninety-eight and ninety-nine, and the dance-halls and
hardships and gamblers and claim-jumpers. I have always had a weakness
for him because of his blind and unshakable love for my little Dinkie,
for whom he whittles out ships and windmills and decoy-ducks. But when
I explained things to simple-minded old Whinnie, and he offered to hand
over the last of his ready money--the money he was hoarding dollar by
dollar to get back to his hidden _El Dorado_--it brought a lump up into
my throat.

I couldn't accept his offer, of course, but I loved him for making it.
And whatever happens, I'm going to see that Whinnie has patches on his
panties and no holes in his socks as long as he abides beneath our
humble roof-tree. I intend to make the new bunk-house just as homy and
comfortable as I can, so that Whinnie, under that new roof, won't feel
that he's been thrust out in the cold. But I must have my own house
for myself and my babes. Soapy Stennet, by the way, has been paid off
by Dinky-Dunk and is moving on to the Knee-Hill country, where he says
he can get good wages breaking and seeding. Soapy, of course, was a
good man on the land, but I never took a shine to that hard-eyed
Canuck, and we'll get along, in some way or other, without him. For,
in the language of the noble Horatius, "I'll find a way, or make it!"

On the way back to Casa Grande to-night, after a hard day's work, I
asked Dinky-Dunk if we wouldn't need some sort of garage over at the
Harris Ranch, to house our automobile. He said he'd probably put doors
on the end of one of the portable granaries and use that. When I
questioned if a car of that size would ever fit into a granary he
informed me that we couldn't keep our big car.

"I can get seventeen hundred dollars for that boat," he explained.
"We'll have to be satisfied with a tin Lizzie, and squander less on
gasoline."

So once again am I reminded that the unpardonable crime of poverty is
not always picturesque. But I wrestled with my soul then and there,
and put my pride in my pocket and told Dinky-Dunk I didn't gi