"And because he's engaged to the prettiest little woman in Alaska,"
Smoke interpolated.

"Yes, and because of that, too, thank you, is no reason for him to get
riotous. He broke out last night again. Sowed the floor of the M. &
M. with gold-dust. All of a thousand dollars. Just opened his poke
and scattered it under the feet of the dancers. You've heard of it, of
course."

"Yes; this morning. I'd like to be the sweeper in that establishment.
But still I don't get you. Where do I come in?"

"Listen. He was too turbulent. I broke our engagement, and he's going
around making a noise like a broken heart. Now we come to it. I like
eggs."

"They're off!" Smoke cried in despair. "Which way? Which way?"

"Wait."

"But what have eggs and appetite got to do with it?" he demanded.

"Everything, if you'll only listen."

"Listening, listening," he chanted.

"Then for Heaven's sake listen. I like eggs. There's only a limited
supply of eggs in Dawson."

"Sure. I know that, too. Slavovitch's restaurant has most of them. Ham
and one egg, three dollars. Ham and two eggs, five dollars. That means
two dollars an egg, retail. And only the swells and the Arrals and the
Wild Waters can afford them."

"He likes eggs, too," she continued. "But that's not the point. I like
them. I have breakfast every morning at eleven o'clock at Slavovitch's.
I invariably eat two eggs." She paused impressively. "Suppose, just
suppose, somebody corners eggs."

She waited, and Smoke regarded her with admiring eyes, while in his
heart he backed with approval Wild Water's choice of her.

"You're not following," she said.

"Go on," he replied. "I give up. What's the answer?"

"Stupid! You know Wild Water. When he sees I'm languishing for eggs, and
I know his mind like a book, and I know how to languish, what will he
do?"

"You answer it. Go on."

"Why, he'll just start stampeding for the man that's got the corner in
eggs. He'll buy the corner, no matter what it costs. Picture: I come
into Slavovitch's at eleven o'clock. Wild Water will be at the next
table. He'll make it his business to be there. 'Two eggs, shirred,' I'll
say to the waiter. 'Sorry, Miss Arral,' the waiter will say; 'they ain't
no more eggs.' Then up speaks Wild Water, in that big bear voice of his,
'Waiter, six eggs, soft boiled.' And the waiter says, 'Yes, sir,' and
the eggs are brought. Picture: Wild Water looks sideways at me, and I
look like a particularly indignant icicle