and summon the waiter. 'Sorry,
Miss Arral,' he says, 'but them eggs is Mr. Wild Water's. You see, Miss,
he owns 'em.' Picture: Wild Water, triumphant, doing his best to look
unconscious while he eats his six eggs.

"Another picture: Slavovitch himself bringing two shirred eggs to me and
saying, 'Compliments of Mr. Wild Water, Miss.' What can I do? What can I
possibly do but smile at Wild Water, and then we make up, of course, and
he'll consider it cheap if he has been compelled to pay ten dollars for
each and every egg in the corner."

"Go on, go on," Smoke urged. "At what station do I climb onto the
choo-choo cars, or at what water-tank do I get thrown off?"

"Ninny! You don't get thrown off. You ride the egg-train straight into
the Union Depot. You make that corner in eggs. You start in immediately,
to-day. You can buy every egg in Dawson for three dollars and sell out
to Wild Water at almost any advance. And then, afterward, we'll let the
inside history come out. The laugh will be on Wild Water. His turbulence
will be some subdued. You and I share the glory of it. You make a pile
of money. And Dawson wakes up with a grand ha! ha! Of course--if--if you
think the speculation too risky, I'll put up the dust for the corner."

This last was too much for Smoke. Being only a mere mortal Western man,
with queer obsessions about money and women, he declined with scorn the
proffer of her dust.

"Hey! Shorty!" Smoke called across the main street to his partner, who
was trudging along in his swift, slack-jointed way, a naked bottle with
frozen contents conspicuously tucked under his arm. Smoke crossed over.

"Where have you been all morning? Been looking for you everywhere."

"Up to Doc's," Shorty answered, holding out the bottle. "Something's
wrong with Sally. I seen last night, at feedin'-time, the hair on her
tail an' flanks was fallin' out. The Doc says--"

"Never mind that," Smoke broke in impatiently. "What I want--"

"What's eatin' you?" Shorty demanded in indignant astonishment. "An'
Sally gettin' naked bald in this crimpy weather! I tell you that dog's
sick. Doc says--"

"Let Sally wait. Listen to me--"

"I tell you she can't wait. It's cruelty to animals. She'll be
frost-bit. What are you in such a fever about anyway? Has that Monte
Cristo strike proved up?"

"I don't know, Shorty. But I want you to do me a favor."

"Sure," Shorty said gallantly, immediately appeased and acquiescent.
"What is it? Let he