ndow and stood looking down again on the city
lights. Presently he said: "I presume you will see the President while you
are in Washington."

"Probably. He is always interested in the field work up there, and this
season's reconnaissance in the Matanuska coal district should be of
special importance to him just now. The need of a naval coaling station on
the Pacific coast has grown imperative, and with vast bodies of coal
accessible to Prince William Sound, the question of location should soon
be solved."

There was another silence, while Poster walked again to the end of the
room and returned. "How soon do you start east?" he asked.

"Within a week. Meantime, I am going over the Cascades into the sage-brush
country to look up that land of Weatherbee's."

"You intend then," said Foster quickly, "to take that piece of desert off
Mrs. Weatherbee's hands?"

"Perhaps. It depends on the possibility of carrying out his project. I
have just shipped a steam thawing apparatus in to the Aurora, and that,
with supplies for a winter camp, has taken a good deal of ready money.
Freighting runs high, whether it's from the Iditarod or south from
Fairbanks. But spring should see expenses paid and my investment back."

"From all I've heard," responded Foster dryly, "you'll get your investment
back with interest."

"Of course," said Tisdale after a moment, "Mrs. Weatherbee will be eager
to dispose of the tract; the only reason it is still on her hands is that
no one has wanted to buy it at any price."

"And that's just why you should." Foster paused, then went on slowly,
controlling the emotion in his voice, "You don't know her, Hollis. She's
proud. She won't admit the situation, and I can't ask her directly, but I
am sure she has come to the limit. I've been trying all day, ever since I
knew I must go north again, to raise enough money to make an offer for
that land, but practically all I have is tied up in Alaska properties. It
takes time to find a customer, and the banks are cautious."

Tisdale rose from his chair. "Foster!" he cried and stretched out his
hands. "Foster--not you, too."

Then his hands dropped, and Foster drew a step nearer into the circle of
light and stood meeting squarely the silent remonstrance, accusation,
censure, for which he was prepared. "I knew how you would take it," he
broke out at last, "but it's the truth. I've smothered it, kept it down
for years; but it's nothing to be ashamed of any longer. I