and books.

Except for the dust that had gathered lightly in its owner's absence,
the place was as neat and clean as if the housemaid had but gone over
it. Hazel shrugged her shoulders. Roaring Bill Wagstaff became, if
anything, more of an enigma than ever, in the light of his dwelling.
She recollected that Cariboo Meadows had regarded him askance, and
wondered why.

He came in while her gaze was still roving from one object to another,
and threw his wet outer clothing, boy fashion, on the nearest chair.

"Well," he said, "we're here."

"Please don't forget, Mr. Wagstaff," she replied coldly, "that I would
much prefer not to be here."

He stood a moment regarding her with his odd smile. Then he went into
the adjoining room. Out of this he presently emerged, dragging a small
steamer trunk. He opened it, got down on his knees, and pawed over the
contents. Hazel, looking over her shoulder, saw that the trunk was
filled with woman's garments, and sat amazed.

"Say, little person," Bill finally remarked, "it looks to me as if you
could outfit yourself completely right here."

"I don't know that I care to deck myself in another woman's finery,
thank you," she returned perversely.

"Now, see here," Roaring Bill turned reproachfully; "see here--"

He grinned to himself then, and went again into the other room,
returning with a small, square mirror. He planted himself squarely in
front of her, and held up the glass. Hazel took one look at her
reflection, and she could have struck Roaring Bill for his audacity.
She had not realized what an altogether disreputable appearance a
normally good-looking young woman could acquire in two weeks on the
trail, with no toilet accessories and only the clothes on her back.
She tried to snatch the mirror from him, but Bill eluded her reach, and
laid the glass on the table.

"You'll feel a whole better able to cope with the situation," he told
her smilingly, "when you get some decent clothes on and your hair
fixed. That's a woman. And you don't need to feel squeamish about
these things. This trunk's got a history, let me tell you. A bunch of
simon-pure tenderfeet strayed into the mountains west of here a couple
of summers ago. There were two women in the bunch. The youngest one,
who was about your age and size, must have had more than her share of
vanity. I guess she figured on charming the bear and the moose, or the
simple aborigines who dwell in this neck of the wood