shouter let me out--jerked the piller-slip
from under me, you might say--and turned me adrift. He's got a
high-chested, low-browed Swede in my place. It takes a guy with hair
down to his eyebrows to be a buck chamber-maid."

"The old rascal!" Ponatah's face darkened with anger. "No wonder those
men robbed him. I wish they had taken all his gold, and escaped."

"You're pretty sore on his heavenly nibs, ain't you?" Ponatah clenched
her hands and her eyes blazed. "Well, you got this consolation, the
Aurora ain't as rich as it was."

"It would have been rich enough for us."

"Us?"

"Yes. You'd marry me if I were rich, wouldn't you?"

"No, I wouldn't," Bill declared, firmly. "What's the use to kid you?"

"Why wouldn't you? Are you ashamed of me?"

Bill protested, "Say, what is this you're giving me, the third
degree?"

"If I were as rich as--well, as Reindeer Mary, wouldn't you marry me?"
Ponatah gazed at the unworthy object of her affections with a yearning
that was embarrassing, and Laughing Bill was forced to spar for wind.

"Ain't you the bold Mary Ann--makin' cracks like that?" he chided.
"I'm ashamed of you, honest. I've passed up plenty of frills in my
time, and we're all better off for it. My appetite for marriage ain't
no keener than it used to be, so you forget it. Little Doc, he's the
marrying kind."

"Oh yes. He tells me a great deal about his Alice. He's very much
discouraged. If--if I had the Aurora I wouldn't forget him; I'd give
him half."

"Would you, now? Well, he's the one stiffneck that wouldn't take it.
He's funny that way--seems to think money 'll bite him, or something.
I don't know how these pullanthrofists get along, with proud people
always spurning their gifts. He's got my nan. You take my tip, Kid,
and cling to your coin. Salt it down for winter. That's what I'm doing
with mine."

"Are you?" Ponatah was not amused, she was gravely interested. "I
thought you were broke, Billy."

"Where'd you get that at?" he demanded. "I've always got a pinch of
change, I have. I'm lucky that way. Now then, you run along and don't
never try to feint me into a clinch. It don't go."

Laughing Bill enjoyed a good rest in the days that followed. He rested
hard for several weeks, and when he rested he lifted his hand to
absolutely nothing. He was an expert idler, and with him indolence was
but a form of suspended animation. In spite of himself, however, he
was troubled by a problem; he was completely