Front matter (continued 2)

"Oh, ya, I know," said Annie. "Kloshe; I very clever klootchman, I know evelything. She lun away with Shipman Jack this very day and came tell me so I tell Pete. How that do, Mr. Quin? You tink, eh?"

But Quin was doubtful. Annie urged her scheme on him and still drew him further down the road.

"Pete him once jealous, hab sick tumtum about Jenny with Shipman Jack, because Jack pinch her behind and she cly out and Pete hear it. That the other night. I know, I know evelything. I tell him mo'. I say she often meet Jack befo'. Now you have fire Jack, and he goes away this day and he now go in Teaser piah-ship to Victolia, I see him. Ah, velly good, she go with him. I say klahowya to them. I get Annawillee for a dolla say she say klahowya to them. And alla time Jenny in yo' house. I bling her this night. You see, all light. You give me one dolla now?"

"You'll get drunk, you old harridan," said Quin, who was all of a shake, "and if you do you'll mamook pelton of me and no get the hundred dolla. No, I give you all to-night."

And knowing that it was true that she might get drunk if she had that dollar she went away without it, back to Jenny.

V

It was true enough that Jack Mottram, "Shipman" or sailorman, had been fired that day a little before noon. To be "fired" is to get the Grand Bounce, and to get that is to get what everyone understands when the sack is spoken of. Another way of saying it is to mention that "he got his time," or perhaps his Walking Ticket. So now it is understood. Before getting all these qualifications as a free unemployed seaman he had got drunk early in the morning. This is nearly always a fatal error and brings trouble anywhere. In a Stick-Moola running at full time it is liable to bring death. For death stands handy with his scythe, or perhaps his pickareen, uplifted in a Mill. Indeed, Jack the Shipman very nearly sent back to Bouddha, or maybe to Posa, one poor native of the Flowery Kingdom by landing him one on the "ear-hole." Poor Fan Tang (or something like it) up-ended and disappeared down a chute, and was so sadly disgruntled that he limped to the office and denounced Jack to Quin in a fine flow of Pidgin English and mixed Chinook.

"Muchee bad bad man belong Tlimmer pukpuk my! My fallee down chute allo same lumber. My muchee solly, you look see bluise!"

He exposed his awful injuries to Quin's view. He had parted with many patches of cuticle in his tumble down the chute.

"Dat shipman bad man, muchee dlunk," said Fan Tang spitefully, and when Quin went over to the Mill he found that Jack was indeed "muchee dlunk," and full of insolence and whisky.

"All ri', Mr. Quin, I quit. I'm full up of this work. You give me my money and I'm off to sea. What the 'ell I ever came ashore for, I dunno! What ho!"

Tom Willett, a young Englishman, went from the Chinee Trimmer to the Big Trimmer, and Wong the philosopher took the Chinee Trimmer.

"Out of this," said Quin, "or I'll smash your jaw."

That was to Jack, who wasn't so drunk as to take up the challenge. He went to the office quite meekly after all. He was almost as meek as one "Dutchman" among ten English.

"Righto, I'm off to Victoria this very day," said Jack. He drew fifteen dollars and three bits, rolled up his dunnage, and went to the wharf where the Teaser steamboat, or "piah-ship," was lying. He bade farewell to Sawmill Town with much contempt. But Indian Annie saw him go. He goes out of this history on his way to Hong Kong with lumber. He got well man-handled by an American mate and lost much insolence before he sighted Mount Stenhouse.

Annie went back to Jenny, now moaning sadly with a dirty face, striped with tear-channels, and told the poor pretty dear a dreadful tale. Pete was up-town, having got drink in spite of his being a Siwash, and was ready to kill, said Annie.

"Aya, I'm very much flightened," said poor Jenny. "What shall I do, Annie?"

The procuress stole a little more silk and dragged at Jenny's arm.

"You klatawa, go away, chahco with me. I hide you, toketie. Pete wicked, bad man, and get hang if he see you. Come hyak, hyak!"

She got her into her own den, and hid her in the inner room. Then she hobbled off to Annawillee, while Jenny sobbed herself to sleep on the dirty bed. Annie and Annawillee were old friends, for Annie liked her. When Chihuahua beat Annawillee too much she took refuge at Annie's till her man calmed down. For love of Annie and a dollar Annawillee would do anything.

"I say I see Jenny klatawa in piah-ship with Jack the shipman. Nawitka, I say it, and you give me dolla?"

"Ha, one dolla, and one dlink, Annawillee," said Annie, grinning. "Pete he much solly, and get pahtlum to-night, for I take Jenny away to Mista Quin. By-by I ask mo' dolla. Nanitsh?"

Oh, but indeed Annawillee was no fool and saw quick enough. To get money for helping Quin to Jenny and to get more for not telling was a fine business! "What you tink, eh?"

At five o'clock, Jenny dressed in a horrid yellow dress belonging notoriously to Annawillee, and with her head bound up as if she were indeed Annawillee after Chihuahua had booted thunder out of her in a jamboree, crawled with Annie up the hill, and sat behind a big stump close to Quin's house, which stood alone. Poor Jenny was scared to death by now, for Annie said terrible things of a drunken Pete, who was supposed to be sharpening a knife for a pretty throat.

"You very good klootchman to Pete," said Annie, "and he bad, oh, bad to you, tenas toketie. Mista Quin him good man, rich and very skookum. Pete kwass, afraid of Mista Quin. You alla same white klootchman, good dlesses, very pretty. You no forget poor Annie: you give her dless and dolla when you alla same white woman in chu'ch, in legleese."

Jenny wept bitterly. She still thought she loved Pete, and she was conscious that she was no beauty in her dirt and the dreadful yellow rags of Annawillee.

"I wicked klootchman," said Jenny, "no mo' virtuous, I have shem see Bible. And I not toketie now, very dirty. How I look now, Annie?"

"You always toketie, tenas," said the old witch truly enough. "I do up yo' hair, tenas. By-by you mamook wash yo' face, and be very pretty. Mista Quin mamook wash every day, him gleat man, skookum man, very lich, very lich, plenty dolla. Him love you mo' than one hundred dolla."

She did up Jenny's mass of tumbled black hair, and wiped her face with a rag. She wetted it in her mouth.

"Now you clean," said Annie. "What time Mista Quin come to him house?"

She peered from behind her stump, and presently saw Quin come up the hill. As he passed her she called to him in a low voice.

"Yahkwa, here, Mista Quin."

And Quin came across the brush to them. Jenny buried her face in her hands and her shoulders troubled.

"I bling her," said Annie. "She much aflaid, hyu kwass, of Pete. He say he makee her mimaloose, kill her dead, she muchee aflaid, and she tikegh you, love you always."

Jenny shook and trembled like a beaten dog.

"She now very dirty and bad dless, but you mamook wash, and she hyu toketie. No klootchman here like Jenny. Now, tenas, you klatawa in house quick."

She dragged the trembling child to her feet, and then held out her hand to Quin.

"You give me the dolla?"

And Quin gave her the money in notes. She knew well enough what each one was worth.

"Now I tell Pete she klatawa with shipman Jack to Victoly, ha!"

She scrambled down the hill and Quin took Jenny by the arm.

"Come, tenas," he said in a shaking voice.

But it was a kind voice after all, and Jenny burst into a torrent of sobs and clung to him.

"I have much shem," she said, "I have much shame."

Even Quin had some too, poor devil.

They went into the house.

VI

By the time that the evening sun, slanting westwards to the Pacific, which roared on wild beaches sixteen miles away, shone into the western end of the Mill, Pete had worked the anger out of his heart as healthy children of the earth must do. The song of the Mill was no longer angry or menacing: it became a harmony and was even sweet. Work went beautifully: the logs were sweet-cutting spruce for the most part, or splendid pine, or odorous red cedar, and one precious log of white cedar. The saws ran easy and their filed teeth were sharp: the Hoes said "We can do, we can do," and the Pony Saw piped cleanly and clear, while the Trimmers, though they cut across the grain, cut most swiftly, and said, "Gee whiz, gee whiz." Young Willett was pleased to get the Big Trimmer and Wong most proud to run the Chinee one, which by its name certainly belonged of old to some Chinaman, perhaps now in the country of Green Tea and Bamboos, and forgetful of his ancient toil in alien lands. The engines, too, ran well and the sawdust carriers did not break down, and no belt parted, and nobody but Ginger White said much that was uncivil, and if he went no further than that no one minded him any more than they minded the weather or the wind.

So as things went sweetly, Pete's heart grew sweet and he was sorry he had kicked at Jenny's legs as she lay under the table, and sorry he had torn up the pretty silk. After all it was natural enough that Quin should give her something, and it was natural he wanted her. But of course he couldn't get her, for she was virtuous and had a Bible, and knew religion, and believed that Lejaub, or the diable, would take anyone who was not virtuous. Both the Catholic and the English priests said that, so it must be true. And, if she had denied having the dress, he owned that he had often frightened her and it was natural for her to say she hadn't got it, poor toketie Jenny. He nobly determined to forgive her and say no more about it.

And then the exultant whistle declared with a hoot that the work was over for the day, and the engines stopped and the saws whirred and whined and drawled and yawned and stood still while the workers clattered out, laughing and quite happy.

Oh, but it's good to be strong and well and to have work, but to have none and thereby to get to cease to love it is very bad, oh, very bad indeed. Let the wise know this, as the unwise and ignorant who labour know it in their hearts and in their hands.

"Oho," said Pete as he strode across the yard, "oho!"

He was nobly determined to forgive. He would go in to Jenny and say, "Look here, Jenny, I forgive you because you tell that lie, that kliminwhit. I forgive you, but you be good, kloshe, tell your man no more kliminwhit."

He came to his silent shack and didn't notice that no smoke, no cooking smoke, came from its low chimney. He marched in bent on forgiveness, and found the front room empty.

"She still cly about that silk," said Pete uneasily. He hesitated a moment before he opened the inner door and called to her.

"Jenny, Jenny."

Silence answers you, Pete, silence and two empty rooms with a table upset, and some few rags of dirtied silk still left by the predaceous fingers or claws of the vulturine Annie.

"She velly closs, go out with some other klootchman," said Pete. "Damn, I beat her again."

It was very hard indeed that he, the Man, should come in ready for forgiveness and good advice with regard to future lies, and should find no one meekly ready to accept pardon and to promise rigid truth in future: it was very hard indeed, and Pete's brows contracted and his heart was outraged.

"Now I not forgive," said Pete. "She not here, no muckamuck ready and I so olo, so hungry."

He saw the steak that poor Jenny had cooked for his dinner. It lay upon the floor, as she had lain on it. It was trodden and filthy and Pete kicked it spitefully. He saw an old rag of a dress that was Jenny's. It was the one she had discarded for Annawillee's horrid yellow rag of quarantine, which said, "I'm Annawillee, be wise and don't come near me." She had changed at Annie's, but Annie brought it back and put it in sight. For she was a spiteful devil.

"What for?" said Pete. A dull fear entered his heart which did not dispossess his anger. "What for: kahta she leave dless?"

It was a "dless" indeed. But she did not need it then. There were certain beautiful garments at Quin's house, and there would be more.

"I'll kick her when I find her," said Pete. He ran out and went straight to the next shack, to Indian Annie's den.

He found her and Annawillee, and both were drunk, but not yet too drunk for speech, or for the discretion of the arranged lie.

"You see Jenny?" he demanded.

Annie lifted her claws to heaven and moaned.

"I so sorry, Pete, Jenny bad klootchman!"

"What you mean, you old devil?" roared Pete, in horrid fear.

"I tell you delate, I tell you, Pete. She klatawa with—with——"

His jaw dropped.

"She go with Shipman Jack to Victoly in piah-ship," said Annie, hiccupping. "I see her, Annawillee see her."

"I see, nika nanitsh Jenny klatawa with Jack," puked Annawillee. "She klatawa in piah-ship, she go Victoly."

She was hugging a bottle to her pendant breasts as she told her lie. But she believed it by now, and kept on repeating "to Victoly, an' to California in piah-ship with Shipman Jack, inati chuck; acloss water."

"Oh, God," said Pete. He was a dirty white colour. His lips hung down.

"She tikegh Jack velly much," said Annie, "love him very much, and cly and say him good man, not beat her and tear her dless. She much aflaid of you, Pete. She cly and go away."

"She cly and go away," chimed in Annawillee, weeping tears of awful alcohol. She was so sorry for everyone, and for herself and Jenny and Pete and all the world. "I cly, I cly!"

She sobbed and drank, and still Pete stood there, very sick at heart.

"My pretty tenas klootchman," he murmured, "oh, hell, what I do?"

"You hab dlink," said Annie, holding him up the bottle. He took it, put it to his mouth, and drank half a pint of fiery stuff that nearly skinned his throat. He dropped the empty bottle on the floor and turned away back to his empty shack.

"I will kill Jack," he said, "I, I, kill Jack!"

He saw the world in a haze: the Mill danced darkly before his eyes, dark against a golden sunset, his brain reeled, and when he came to his own door he fell inside and lay insensible.

"Pete dlink too much, he gleedy beast," said Annie. But Annawillee nursed her empty bottle to her bosom and said foolishly—

"I see—nika nanitsh Jenny klatawa, oh, hyu keely Annawillee."

And the night presently came down, and as the shacks lighted up it was told among all the Siwashes and the Chinkies and the White Men of ten Nations that Jenny, pretty Jenny, tenas toketie Jenny, had "scooted" with Shipman Jack across the water to Victoria, to California, to China, oh, to hell-an'-gone somewhere!

"To Hell and Gone out of this," they said. And Spanish Joe sang to the guitar a bitter little song about someone's señora who fled across the sea, and Chihuahua grinned at Jack's luck (Annawillee did not tell him the truth), and the Whites, Long Mac, and Shorty Gibbs and Tenas Billy and even young Tom Willett, who knew nothing about klootchmen, though some had their eye on him hopefully, said there was no knowing what any woman would do. They understood that men would do what they had a mind to.

"Anyhow," said Shorty, "she was a dern sight too pretty for a golderned Siwash like Pete. Someone wuz sure to kapswalla her sooner or later. If I wuz given to klootchmen, which I ain't, thank the Lord, I'd ha' put in for her myself."

But to think of such a coyoté as Jack Mottram picking up the Pearl of the River!

"It would sicken a hog," said Shorty Gibbs.

VII

Quin might be a Squaw-Man (as indeed he was in his irregular way) but he lived in comfort, and Sam, his "boy," aged twenty-five, was a wonder, worth more dollars by far than the days of the longest months and all he could steal as well. Sam was good-looking and as clean as a fresh-run quinnat, and he had the most heavenly and ingratiating smile, and the neatest ways, and a heaven-sent gift of cooking. He was pleasant to the world and to himself, and he sang little Chinese songs as he worked and made Quin's house as clean as heaven after rain. He didn't "hit the pipe," which Wong did, of course, and he only smoked cigars. They were Quin's and good ones. Not that opium is so bad as liquor, by the way, though the missionaries say it is. It is better to "hit the pipe" than to "dlinkee for dlunk," and that's an all-solid fact.

Sam was discreet, and he let no one rob Quin but himself. Indeed, he almost loved Quin, for Quin had good qualities. For example, he rarely swore in his own house, and he had a way of making little presents to Sam which were very encouraging.

"Boss he makee allo tim' litty cumshaw my," said Sam. "He givee my cigar: he givee my dolla. He givee my close: makee stlong cutsom givee me all ting he no wantshee. My catchee allo tim' good close, boot, tlouser, and he speakee my velly good: neber makee bobbely. Massa Quin velly good Boss, no can catchee better. Supposee klootchman no good, makee bobbely, he say 'hyack klatawa:' supposee klootchman good klootchman allo same wifo dat velly good: Massa Quin velly good and makee mo' cumshaw my."

And now there was a new klootchman.

"Ho," said Sam Lung, "ho, he bling 'nodder klootchman. My tinkee 'bout time he catchee new klootchman. He velly lestless, like he got water topside, clazy. What she like this new klootchman?"

He put his eye to the key-hole, and then drew up in disgust.

"Fo, velly dirty, cly allo tim'. She velly litty young gal. After las' wun he likee catchee young gal. Ha, my tinkee bymby she catchee wash and look velly pletty. She whitee gal my tinkee when she catchee washee."

But poor Jenny was on the floor, still crying as if her little heart would break. She was not yet able to look up and see the wonder of a nice clean house, such as she had never been in, in all her life.

"You're all right, Jenny, my dear," said Quin, "don't you cry. No one shall hurt you, my girl. I'll give you a good time, my dear. Now get up, Jenny, and look at your home, and then I'll take you into another room and find you a new dress. Come, tenas Jenny."

He spoke quite tenderly and touched Jenny's heart.

"Oh, but I have shem," she said.

"You come and mamook wash," said Quin, "and by-by we'll have muckamuck and then you'll be all right. Come now."

He lifted her to her feet, and when she felt his strong hands on her she felt a little better. It was like fate, though she knew not what fate was. He was strong and kind, and he said he loved her. She caught his hand.

"You no beat me?" she cried in a sudden passion of fear and helplessness. "You no beat me, Mr. Quin?"

"No, Jenny, no," he said. He turned her tearful dirty face round and kissed her.

"Oh, I too much dirty," she exclaimed in great distress. "No bebee me till I mamook wash."

She caught sight of herself in a big glass over the mantelpiece.

"Oh, Mr. Quin, I have shem: I so dirty. You forgive me, Mr. Quin?"

And Quin laughed a little uneasily.

"Of course, my dear, now I make a lady of you; you are so pretty, Jenny."

He went out of the room and told Sam to make a "plenty hot" bath in the bedroom. And he put out some clean clothes for her, which he took from a locked cupboard. Some were new. Most of them had been got for a Haida girl who had died of consumption two years before. But Quin had forgotten her. He spoke to Sam when the "boy" brought in the bath and water.

"Sam, you no fool, I think," he began.

"That same my tinkee, Sir," said Sam.

"I bring another klootchman here, Sam."

"Where you catchee?" asked Sam with great interest.

"You mind your own pidgin," said Quin. "Now look, Sam, I no wantshee anyone know who she is. When they ask you, you say she white woman, allo same wife, from San Francisco. If you tinkee that not true, that all right, but if you say so I fire you and give you no dolla. While she stay here and no one know who she is I give you five more dolla, moon-pidgin, every month. Now you savvy?"

Sam stood with his head on one side all the time his master spoke. He looked as intelligent as a sharp Chinaman can look, and he answered with decision and a perfect gravity.

"My savvy that plenty! You catchee one litty gal and no wantshee man savvy. Dat light, I plenty savvy. My say she numpa one pletty litty gal from San Flancisco. I savvy plenty and if litty gal stay you givee my mo' five dolla moon-pidgin. My savvy plenty. Now you washee her?"

"Fill the bath, you damn fool," said Quin.

"All li', savvy plenty," said Sam. "My cookee good dinner for Missus. Five dolla mo' velly good. My cookee velly good: makee litty gal stop allo same wifo."

And he went back to the kitchen, solemn and satisfied, but very curious to see the litty piecee gal when she was washed.

It was all an amazing dream for poor Jenny. If it had not been for the black bruise on her knee she would have thought herself in some new world. For the house was beautifully built and lined inside with red cedar. The furniture was as good as any in the City, for the tragedy of Quin's life was, that he had met a white woman, and had fallen in love with her three years ago. They were to have been married, but the woman found out about his past history, his character as a squaw-man, and threw him over. He had prepared the house for her. The dead Haida girl Lily had come instead. Jenny dreamed and wondered and half forgot that she was not good to be there. Quin was very strong, "hyu skookum," and his house was to be hers, and he would prevent Pete killing her. As she got into the hot water the tears ran down her face. But the bath was pleasant, and she was not too degraded to enjoy the cleanliness of things; and the hot water eased the tension of her mind, and it seemed suddenly as if her life with Pete was something very far off, hardly to be remembered.

And then she handled the clothes she was to wear, and the mere woman woke in her heart. Here was linen far better than that she had helped to wash for Mrs. Alexander before Pete had come and taken her from Kamloops! It was beautiful linen to her eye, and in spite of everything the pleasure she found in it was wonderful, for though she did not know it, her skin was tender and delicate and had always suffered from the stuff she had worn.

There were silk stockings!

"Mista Quin he very gleat man," said Jenny, awestruck. "Much better than any I ever see, never nanitsh any like 'em."

When she got them on she took up the dress. It was also silk, but not like the monstrous tartan the cause of all her woe. It was a dark red and fine and supple, for Lily had seen it in her last days at Victoria and Quin had bought it for her, knowing that she would never wear it. She died with it on her bed: her dead hand touched it. It made another klootchman nearly happy.

"I aflaid to wear it," said Jenny as she held it up, "it too beautiful for poor me. I don't know where I am: I feel silly, all like a dleam."

She looked at the big glass and saw herself white clad, and with the red silk in her hands. Her shoulders were white: her sun-tanned neck showed how white they were. And the red was lovely.

She put it on and she almost screamed with pleasure.

"I 'most like a lady, like Missis Alexander," she cried. And indeed there was no prettier lady within a hundred miles.

She stood and looked at herself and trembled.

"Oh, oh," said Jenny.

And then she found that the dress fastened up the back.

"I no savvy how can do it," said Jenny in great trouble. "If I do um up firs' I no get in and if I no do um up it fall off. How can white lady do, when she have no one help her?"

It was an awful puzzle which she could not solve. A worse trouble was at hand, however, for when she tried to put on the shoes meant for her they were too small.

"What I do?" asked Jenny of herself in the glass. "My ole shoes no good and my foot too big for this little shoe. I have shem go without shoe and with dless undone. I wis' I had someone help me. But alla same I very pretty I tink, but I have shame of everything. I no more good, no more virtuous—"

Her lip hung down preparatory to her bursting into tears. But Quin knocked at the door.

"Muckamuck ready, tenas Jenny," he said. And Jenny murmured that she would come directly.

"He very kind man I tink," said Jenny, "I ask him through the door if he mind I no have shoe."

The door led straight through into the sitting-room. In her turn she knocked on it timidly and opened it an inch.

"Mista Quin, I have shem—"

"Why, tenas Jenny?" asked Quin.

"I no can put on shoe," she said. Quin laughed and she shrank back.

"Come in, never mind," he said as he came to the door and pushed it open. She bent her head.

"And please, Mista Quin, I no can do dless up at back. I much aflaid it fall off."

Quin came into the room as Sam brought in the dinner. He shut the door and caught her in his arms.

"I have shem," she murmured, but he kissed her neck and mouth. "I have shem."

He did the dress up at the back and held her away from him at arm's length.

"By the Holy Mackinaw, you are a pretty girl, Jenny," he said thickly. "You bebee me now?"

The slow tears rolled down her face as she lifted it to him.

"Yes, Mista Quin, but I have shem," she said simply.

Sam banged on the door.

"Chow-chow, Sir and Missus," said Sam, who was much interested in the "love pidgin;" "Chow-chow all leady, Sir and Missus."

It was an amazing dinner for Jenny. She had never seen the like save in the kitchen of Mrs. Alexander's hotel, and if she had eaten anything half as good, it was when she was a tenas klootchman and sat outside on the wood-pile with a plate of food given her by the hotel cook.

But that Chinese cook wasn't a patch on Sam, who had been nerved to unwonted efforts by the new situation and by the extra five dollars while the new "Missus" stayed. He put out Quin's best cutlery and polished the electro-plate till it shone indeed. The glasses were like crystal and there was a bottle of champagne, made in San Francisco (and perhaps very little the worse for that, seeing the quality of western imported wines), on the full table.

Jenny gasped and sat down very humbly. But if she looked up she could see herself in a mirror opposite. It was a very strange and pretty and abashed creature that she saw, a creature who "had shame" but was too dazed to feel it greatly. For everything was so fine, and Quin was a big strong man and white-clad Sam was so polite. "You hab dis, Missus," or "my tinkee, Sir, Missus hab mo' wine." And the floor had a carpet, and there were red curtains at the window, through which she could see the shining mighty river and the far faint hills of Sumass, lighted by the sinking splendid sun.

"Oh, my dear, you are very pretty," said Quin when Sam was out of the room.

"I tink so too, Mista Quin," she said; "but I have shem to be here. I know not'ing. I velly foolish klootchman, cultus and halo good; I tink I very wicked to be here, but I like it allo same, Mista Quin."

He gave her more wine and her eyes began to sparkle. The world of yesterday, nay, even of to-day, was far off, further off than the pure faint hills.

"You be good to me, Mista Quin?"

His hard heart was touched.

"You bet, Jenny, I'll give you all you'll want."

"Ah, you very big boss," said Jenny. If he could give any human creature all she wanted he was a very big boss indeed.

"Yes, my kiddy, you forget all about everyone but me, and I'll act square to you, on my oath I will," said Big Quin. He pulled her towards him and kissed her mouth. She flamed scarlet.

"I lik' heem better'n Pete," she said. "Pete cluel to me; tear my dless. Now I have better, ah!"

The dinner came to an end and Sam brought in a lamp as the evening light faded.

"That will do, Sam. I don't want you any more," said Quin.

And when Sam had washed up he went down to a compatriot's in the City.

"My tinkee he makee love-pidgin now," said Sam, as he went. "Litty piecee gal velly pletty alla same lady, maskee she no savvy what for do with knife and fork. Dat not plopa: my tinkee her savvy velly littee. Bymby my talkee how can do with Missus. My tinkee she no flom San Flancisco. She makee hair not plopa, allo same lope. My tinkee my talkee her how can do, my savvy plenty."

But he told his gossips down below that Mista Quin had got a white woman up from San Francisco. Indeed he did not know that Jenny was no more than a quarter-breed Siwash, though he wondered at her knowing so much Chinook, of which Sam himself was very ignorant, though he savvied even how to do hair.

The world of the little Shack-Town by the Mill believed that Jenny had really fled with Shipman Jack and Pete got very drunk again that night.

VIII

"The Siwash'll be on Jack's tracks," said the Men of the Mill, "for sure he'll be after him, hyak koolie! What the thunder did the little klootchman see in Jack! Oh, hell, he warn't nothin' but a special kind of sea hobo, boys, allers on the go: a blanket-stiff at sea, that's what. And drink—we should say so! And mean, oh, there ain't words! If Pete runs into him——"

Pete wanted blood, that's a fact, but when a man wants blood and gets liquor the blood stays unshed unless the victim is right handy. That is also a fact, all wool, and a yard wide.

Another fact was of great importance, and that is that Pete owed the Mill dollars instead of the Mill owing him any, and to get across to Victoria in the Island took silver, t'kope chikamin, in the shape of dollars. And Pete couldn't swim, not so much as a hundred yards. He was no Fish Indian. And the Straits are some miles across.

Pete woke out of his drunk early in the morning and saw three facts in the light of dawn, saw them come out of the darkness and stand up before him, just as the Mill did and the tin-roofed shining Cannery across the River, where Chinamen wallowed in shining salmon for Eastern consumption. Pete saw the array of facts and at the back of his Indian brain he had a notion of destiny, as they all have. Jenny had run: he had "halo dolla," and it was a long swim across the Straits of Georgia, in spite of all the islands a man might rest at.

"She hyu bad klootchman," said Pete. "I no care one damn. I take another by-by. She too much pletty, no sit down, klatawa with Jack."

There wasn't a drink for Pete that morning, but he lighted a fire and made some "caupy" or coffee.

"I go work at Moola alla same," said Pete. "I no dlink, I make dolla: I get another good klootchman. By-by Jack go to sea, leave Jenny, she go hell. That all light. She damn bad klootchman."

So when the Whistle, the great prophet of the strenuous life, yelled the "Get up" in quick time, he was ready, and as determined as any Blackfoot at a Siwash stake to show nothing of his torment. The second whistle that shrieked "Get out" sent him off, and the day began with the usual preliminary jawing-match in the Engine-room where fiery monsters ate sawdust.

"Ha, Pete," said Skookum Charlie, whose big bulk was spread on a sawdust pile where the glare of an open furnace shone on him. "He come to wuk' alla same."

Long Mac with the blue eyes and keen clean American look was there. And next him was black-a-vised, beady-eyed Chihuahua, far more ancient Mexican than Spanish, and then Hans Anderssen and Johann Smit, both seamen. And with them showed the fair and devilish face of Spanish Joe with the beautiful voice and a soul fit for hell. And the Engineer, a little Scotty from Glasgow, went about his work with one Chinee helper as if they were not there, and only said "damn your jaw," if they got in his way.

The crowd looked at Pete, who swung in boldly enough with his head up.

"Hullo," said the crowd with sympathy. But Joe laughed.

"You' klootchman she pulled up her stakes and quit, eh?" he asked with a sneer.

"That so," said Pete quietly. "I tell her to go night befo' las' night. She no good in fac', bad klootchman, get dlunk, no savvy cook. Thlow my muckamuck on the floo'. I say go. I tink no klootchman any good. Jack Shipman soon tire of she."

"Perfectamente," said Joe, "you spik truth. All women are bad."

Scotty managed to jam Joe in the pit of the stomach with the handle of the huge wooden shovel with which he was feeding the greedy fires.

"Beg your pardon," said Scotty with a grin, "but they arn't all bad."

"Every damn one," said Joe, writhing.

"All klootchmen no good, I say," Pete cried once more.

"You had a mother, lad," said the Engineer severely.

Pete shook his head.

"That all light, Mr. Engineer, but she no good neither. She sell my poo' damn sister to the man at Kamloops that had the ranche Cultus Muckamuck Quin got now, sell her for two dolla, I tink. And now Cultus got her too."

Scotty having no more remarks to make, yanked the whistle lanyard. It was six o'clock.

"This is a hell of a country for a mahn wi' ony releegion in him," said Scotty.

He turned savagely on his Chinese helper.

"Now then, Fan, you wooden image, get a move on you: hump yersel', man, or I'll scupper you."

The gift of work to unhappy mortals is that they cannot work and be wholly unhappy, and Pete sucked a grim kind of pleasure out of the labour that was his, and found some anodyne in it for the aching wound he bore in his foolish childish heart. That day the labour was great, for Ginger White had a mind to set the pace and make it fiery. It was, as the men knew, one of his bad, his wicked days, such a day as that on which he had driven Pete's predecessor to a standstill. When Ginger's face was tallow against his fiery beard they knew what to expect, and got it every time. It was said that on these occasions he had quarrelled with his wife, but the truth is he had a vicious nature and a love of work together. It gave him pleasure to see the great saws do their work, and a greater pleasure still to see a man turn white and fail.

But now he had Pete, not Simmons, and the devil himself at the Saws would not have broken Pete that day. For there was a hard devil in his heart, and he grinned savagely as he saw White's motions get every minute quicker and quicker. He nudged Skookum Charlie.

"This Ginger White have one bad day. The debbel, how he go. You see!"

They saw. He cut them wicked slabs, slabs that had an unholy weight, with all of it in the butt. When they fell they dropped between the skids and got up and kicked. One struck Skookum on the nose and made it bleed, another threw Pete. But though they both knew that Ginger gave it them hot and heavy and wasted wood in slabs to do it, they made no sign. This was a day that no one would be beaten. All the men knew by instinct and by knowledge that this was to be a day of hell, when the cut would be great and Ginger would go home half dead with his endeavours to work them up. They set their teeth, even as the saws' teeth were set in another fashion, and prepared to chew the lumber that he hurled to them.

The atmosphere was strange, charged, electric, strained. There were days when the Tyee Sawyer left them slack, and went easy. Now they jumped, their eyes were bright, they sweated, got alive, moved like lightning. Each was an automaton; each a note struck by the Player. And he played, oh, tilikum, he played!

This was work, tilikum, such as even the Stick Moola hadn't known. The engines knew it, and the steam gauges told it and the fires, and the sawdust carriers. Chinamen knew it and shrieked horrid oaths at each other. The belts knew it and squealed. Scotty knew it and groaned, for he alone, bar accidents, could stop Ginger's drunken debauch of labour.

But the men he played on knew it best and almost cheered him when they got the pace and found it at first so easy. They were all young, not an old man among them, Ginger White himself was the senior of them all. They could love and work and fight and play hell, for they had youth in them. They had to show it to the song and dance of the Saw, the song and dance of the flying dust. The engines ran easy, and their muscles played beneath a glistening moist skin as with open shirts they did what came to their hands. "Go it, you devils," and "Let her scoot," and "Oh, hell," they said.

They smiled and were happy enough, but as the hum increased and the great skids got full over against the Pony Saw, you might have seen Long Mac's smile die down into a good settled seriousness, quite worth seeing. Long Mac had a way of dreaming as he worked, for he had a power of thought and was sadly intelligent, but when Ginger started trying them high, he had no time to think, well as he knew all things a saw-mill man may and shall know. The skids were piled high, you shall understand, you greenhorns, and he knew how it would rejoice Ginger White to see that they would take no more, while everything the wedgers-off tried to sling on the pile rolled backwards to the very rollers. That would please White: he would give a shrug of his shoulders as if to say—

"What a damned loafing lazy lot I've to do with!"

"To hell with Ginger," said Mac. He set his teeth. The lumber flew: he took risks: for swift running in a Mill means risks. Some of the lumber was shaky, ring-shakes and wind-shakes were in it, and in some of the wet-shakes fine white gum. When the saw strikes a shake the loose pieces work out: some are like to touch the teeth of the saw and get picked up! What that means is that the helper to the Pony Saw is shot at by jagged lumps of wood: they come by whizzing like a horrid bullet. Mac and his man watched and at times Mac lifted his hand and his helper ducked as the Saw said "Phit, phit," and threw things at him. It was exciting, it made the blood run fast in his veins to know that at any moment he might be killed, and be so quiet.

This was the battle of the lumber: for saws kill men and logs, kill them and maim them, oho, but the day was fine and the fight long! Down in the boom the man of the Boom, the man with the long pole, who made the logs swim to their ascent to the Temple, whence they were dragged by the Bull-Wheel, had his work cut out, but worked. If he kept Ginger waiting, Ginger would skip over the skids and come to the open way that led down to the Boom and use sulphurous language.

"What the—how the—why the—oh, hell, are we to shut down and go home? Hump yourself, Paul, hump yourself."

And much worse if it hadn't been that Paul, a thin silent dark man, was reputed dangerous, and was said to have killed a man in Texas, somewhere in the neighbourhood of El Paso, where not a few pass up the golden stairs on an unholy sudden. But the atmosphere down there is fine, in its way: you shall not believe otherwise, I entreat you.

It was towards noon when Mac had Ginger beat or near it. Or if not that, he saw that Mac wasn't to be overcome. The Trimmers, Wong, the Chinee, and Willett, the Englishman, had the thing down fine, for Wong knew his business and Willett was at hard as a keg of nails or a coil of barbed wire. He could claw and sling and work and sweat with any.

And still Ginger sent the thing going and again spurted, for Quin came in!

"Stand back, clear the track for Mr. Josephus Orange-Blossom," said the nigger, the coon, the "shiny" (not a Sheeny, by the way) of the song. That was the way Quin felt. He felt like someone in particular. Indeed he always did, but now with Jenny at his house, clad in beautiful clothes and looking "a real daisy," he was very proud of himself. That's the way the male has, if the truth be said, men or moose or wapiti, or a lion or a tiger for that matter: or, let us say, a tom-cat.

He was full of himself! And all he wanted to do now was to "fire" Pete and get him out of the place, as was natural.

Some men would have done it even without excuse, though that is difficult, but George Quin had some natural or unnatural notion of justice and couldn't go so far. He watched Pete with critical half-savage eyes. Was there a glint of pity in them? Perhaps, tilikum, for a man is hard to know.

If this was Ginger's day and Ginger's hour when Quin looked in, it was Pete's day too, for he threw his poor outraged Indian soul into labour and did, oh, he did very well. Quin saw that he did, he was pleased with the man, and seeing that he had to pay him, the work pleased him. Pete's face was hard now and his eyes glittered: his muscles stood up: his face and neck were wet: they glistened. He went like a machine: and never made a mistake. He climbed a five-foot log on the carriage close to the teeth of the saw (the sawdust was in his hair and it looked white and woolly) like a cougar, at one bound. He worked up Skookum Charlie in like manner and made the Siwash like it.

"Oh, he's good," said Quin approving and yet savage. "Oh, he's——" and then Scotty yanked the whistle lanyard and the whistle said, "Knock off, you galoots, galoots, galoo-oots!"

The men threw up their heads, and most wiped their brows as they straightened their backs and said "Oo!" They breathed and filled their lungs and then thought of their empty bellies and started for the Hash-house. But White, always polite and obsequious, stayed a while with Quin.

"We've cut a lot, Mr. Quin," said White; "the boom's nigh empty."

"More in to-day," replied Quin. "How's your wedger-off doin'? If he don't suit you, fire him, White."

"He's the best man I've had this year," said White. He did not understand why Quin grunted and turned his back on him. If he had known Pete would have gone that day.

"What's wrong?" asked White. "Well, I made 'em skip to-day."

So the men thought as they piled into the hash, and said what they thought of him and grubbed in anticipation of an afternoon the equal of the morning.

"He's a swine but a first-class sawyer, and no mistake, no fatal error, eh, what? He made us skip and sweat to-day, but never piled us up! That was what the tallow-faced swine was after, eh?"

"You bet! Here Fan Tong, or Hang Chow, more chow this way! White's a swine; oh, he made us skip."

"'E's a 'oly terror," said Willett.

"A tough from Terror Flat!"

"No razor in his boot, though! There ain't no real fight in Tallow-Chops. Pass the mustard."

What a good life it was! And the chewing was good enough for a boss hobo, death on three fine squares or set-downs, and don't you forget it!

But Pete grubbed silently in Indian Annie's, who moaned to him about Jenny.

"Damn klootchman, I forget her," said Pete. Yet many days passed and he did not forget.

When they were all out of the Mill, Quin stood and stared at the dead saws without seeing them.

"It's hard lines: but I can't fire him," said Quin.

IX

For the workers, these Bees in a Wood Hive, the days passed swiftly. Oh, it was wonderful how they passed! The dawn broke up night's massed army and chased it into the Pacific Ocean, and round the quick little world, and again fled. The days went round like a wheel, like a saw. They came up and flowered: they died down and were not. Only Sunday stayed like a monstrous month, an oppression as all workers find it, an unnecessary day when every muscle and nerve ask for the habit of big work. We cursed and groaned on Sunday, tilikum, and if you don't like to believe it, there's no one will plug you for doing the other thing. Sunday wasn't an Oasis, it was a desert. On Monday it was, however, desirable: Tuesday pined for it: Wednesday yearned for it: Thursday screamed for it: Friday sickened for it and Saturday hallooed joyfully with it in sight. And by ten on Sunday the Workers loathed it.

But the swift days of work were the days. They streamed past like a mountain torrent. Even sad and sorry Pete found it so. He smote his wedges with his maul and, lo and behold! a day was dead; and the stars sang above the hills and the starlight gleamed on the Fraser's shining flood. He laid his head, his cabeza, on a pillow (unwashed) and it was day. Again it was night.

Yet for one the hours were strange and slow. She looked out from the house on the hill-side and saw the slow sun wheel his team into the West, as if his horses drew innumerable thousands and hundreds of the world's big freight. Poor Jenny, now plump and sweet and beautifully clad, and learned in the delights of hot water (of which Sam was a kind of prophet, for he loved baths as if he were a Japanese), found the days slow in spite of baths and clothes and cleanliness. The poor dear pined a little, as one might who had lived wildly, for the ruder joys of her earlier life. Things were onerous. She wanted at certain hours to sit down, to "squat upon her hunkers" and suck at a pipe, perhaps. A yarn with wretched Annie or Annawillee would have been pleasing. She even thought of Pete, though she was getting very fond of her conqueror Quin, who dominated her wonderfully. That was her nature; for if some conqueror of Quin had come along she would have gone with him, very likely, as a wapiti hind will follow a conquering wapiti. And yet who can say? I cannot; for I think she loved Quin very well indeed, though he denied her the trivial consolations of Indian bawdry with Annie or mournful Annawillee.

Somehow I think Jenny was very good. One can't say. She grew prettier and gentler every day, every hour. Sam admired her frankly and was very polite. It was his nature. He told Quin quite openly what he thought, and sometimes gave him good advice.

"My tinkee Missus heap pletty, Mista Quin," said Sam, "evely day mo' pletty, maskee my tinkee she velly sad, hab noting to do. Missus wantche flin, Mista Quin, t'at what she wantchee. No can lead, no can lite, my tinkee, no can makee dless allo tim'. T'at velly sad. No likee cookee chow-chow, she say."

He shook his head. She wanted a friend ("wantchee flin"), that was a fact, and all Quin could do was to order her more dresses and linen from Victoria. He got her picture-books (for, as Sam said, "she no can lead") and talked to her about what she saw there. When he was with her she was happy.

"I velly happy at night-time, Tchorch," she said meekly. "But daytime velly keely, very sad."

"Tchorch" Quin picked her up in his arms and set her on his knee.

"Litty gal, I love you, tenas," he answered, mixing the lingoes. Perhaps he did love her. Quien sabe?—as Chihuahua said about everything uncertain.

"You love me, Tchorch?" she asked flushing, "velly much?"

"Tenas, hyu, hyu, very much indeed, little one."

"I not mind if the day is sad, then," said Jenny. She regarded him with big sad eyes, and then looked down.

"But I not a good woman, Tchorch."

Quin frowned and grumbled.

"Damn nonsense, tenas."

But it wasn't damn nonsense to Jenny. And most especially it wasn't so on Sundays, though on that day she had George Quin all to herself and the greedy Mill stood quiet. On Sundays she heard the tinkling church bells, and when the wind blew lightly from the east the sound of distant singing came up to her as she stood at the open window. She remembered what the good Missionary, the "kloshe leplet," had said about goodness, and badness, and the Commandments. There were ten of them, Jenny remembered, though she had been to no service ever since she lived at Cultus Muckamuck's ranche.

"I velly wicked, Tchorch," she said mournfully. "I blake the Commandments!"

"Humph," said George Quin, "don't cry about it, kiddy. I've kicked 'em all to flinders myself. If you go to Lejaub's hyas piah, I go with you, tenas."

He kissed her. His bold and ready undertaking to go to hell with her was really very consoling. His statement that he had broken all the Commandments comforted her: it showed his good faith. Jenny had a wonderfully material view of hell, and her imagination showed it to her as a sawmill in flames. She had seen the Mill at Kamloops on fire, that is why. Now George Quin was the Manager of the Mill and the owner and a big strong man. She had a kind of dim notion that he would be able to manage a good deal even in hell.

And besides she loved him really. There's no doubt about it, and even he knew it.

The big strong brute of a man was very gentle with her, and let her "cly" a little when she thought of the good missionary (who happened to have been a very bad man, by the way, though many of them were splendid) and the wood fires of the diabolical saw-mill of which Lejaub the devil was manager.

But he never knew how her feelings worked on her when he was away, and indeed if he had known there might not have been the trouble that there was. And he had entirely forgotten that he had a Bible in the house: the gift of his old mother who still lived in Vermont, far away to the East.

The Bible was the source of all the woe that followed when a big deal in lumber took Quin over to Victoria and kept him there three days. He had more than half a mind to take her with him, and if her speech hadn't betrayed her origin he would have done it like a shot. And when he went Jenny cried as if he were going to cross the Big Salt Chuck or the Pacific. Though her mother had been a Hydah she knew nothing of the waters.

"I much aflaid of Pete," she thought.

But Quin gave great directions to Sam and he believed he could trust him.

"My look see evely ting," said Sam. "Missus all light: my givee good chow-chow, hot wata, blush dlesses, t'at all light. My no lettee Missus go out? No, good, my no lettee."

But he played Fan-tan of course, and couldn't be expected to stay in all the time, or to understand that the Missus was upset in her mind about morality. And he knew nothing and cared less about the Bible. There wasn't the making of a rice Christian in him unless rice was very scarce indeed, and now he lived on the fat of the land of British Columbia.

So the day after she had cried herself to sleep, she came across the Bible.

It was not quite a family Bible, and only weighed a pound or so, but it had a biblical cover of sullen puritanical leather which suggested that the very bookbinder himself was of the sourest disposition, a round-head, a kill-joy, with ethics equal to the best Scotch morality. This binding alone, however, would have had comparatively little effect on the childish mind of Jenny. But the book had in it dour and savage pictures of so surprising a lack of artistic merit that they struck her down at once, poor child. In spite of the lack of colour the dreadful draughtsman made very effective curly-whirly flames in a hell which was remarkably like a study of a suburban coal-cellar, and the victims of his fire and ferocity expressed the extremest anguish as they fried on eternal grids! Oh, horrors, but the pictures brought back to the fearful mind of the tenas klootchman all the dread with which the good (or bad) minister, Alexander Mickie, had inspired her when she attended Sunday School at Kamloops and heard him preach in Chinook. For Chinook is no more than a few hundred words and most of them are very material. So was Mickie's mind, whether he preached openly or drank in secret, and the hyas piah of Lejaub, or the great fire of the Devil (Lejaub being equal to Le Diable), was a hot wood fire to Jenny. She believed naturally enough in Lejaub much more than in God, for her Indian blood helped her there, or rather hindered her, and the English God was a far-off notion to a mind not given to high abstractions.

So Jenny when she got the picture Bible sat with it in her lap and trembled.

"I a bad woman, I go to hell; very wrong for me to love Tchorch!" was her mind's commentary as she turned the blind pages for some other picture.

And every now and again she turned back to the curling flames and elaborate grids of hell. She traced in some anguished lineaments a remote likeness to herself. Then she fell to weeping, and weeping Sam found her. He was sympathetic. On the whole Sam was a very good sort.

"Why you cly, Missus?"

It was in vain for her to say she wasn't crying.

"Oh, yes, you cly, Missus, but what for you cly? Mista Quin he come back to-molla."

He might even be back that night, as Sam knew, though he would not be till late. But Jenny sobbed and the Bible slipped from her knees upon the floor. Sam picked it up and recognised it at once. He snorted as he gave it her back.

"My tinkee no good lead dis," he said solemnly. "My tinkee all the stolies in it lies, Missis. My savvy one, two, tree, piecee Joss-pidgin-man Chinaside, what you callee leplet, my savvy Yingling word, miss'onary, and he talkee no good. My tinkee him got wata topside, clazy, pelton you say."

Out of this difficult hishee-hashee of words Jenny extracted the notion that in Sam's opinion missionaries were fools, for "leplet" and "pelton" put together mean that. She shook her head and sobbed.

"My tinkee no good makee littee Missus cly," said Sam. "T'at book makee nicee litty gal cly allo time. My see um. No good littee gal cly: my say it damn foolo book. Mista Quin him velly good man: plenty chow-chow, dlesses and Sam for washee evelyting. Missus, you no lead Bible. Him no good. Damn foolo stoly, my savvy."

But what good was it for a Chinaman to tell her that?

"Him velly good book, I tink, Sam," she said earnestly.

"My no tinkee," returned Sam.

"It belongs to Mista Quin," urged the "Missus."

"Him never lead him," said Sam triumphantly. "My putty him away and Mista Quin him never savvy."

Perhaps that was true. But then was not "Tchorch" wicked too?

Her lips trembled and she opened the book again at the fiery picture.

"What t'at picture?" asked Sam, quite eager to see.

"It's hell," said Jenny, trembling.

"Ah," said Sam, "t'at Debelo's house. T'at all light. Wong him velly clever man, him say Debble-Debble here all light, but only China-side belong God. My tinkee too. Wong say one time no food, no licee, and evelybody hungly, and makee player to Posa, allo same God, and nex' day one foot licee all over. T'at China-side, galaw. But my no can stay: my cookee chow-chow: Missus no cly, Debble-Debble never take litty gal, Missus."

But the fact remained that even Sam believed the devil was in British Columbia (and all America, of course), even if God only thought of China. On the whole Sam's cheerful intervention did harm rather than good. Jenny did put the book away and tried not to think of the "hyas piah," but as the evening came on there was a gorgeous sunset and even that brought fire to her timid mind. When it was dark she shivered and was glad to see a light. Then she got out the book again.

She was living a very wicked life, oh, yes, the missionaries would say that. She was Pete's wife and was living with Tchorch! That was very wrong, it was against the Commandments.

What ought she to do?

What was right?

If only George were back! That is what her heart said, for now she hungered for him very bitterly, because she felt she would see him no more. The little girl had gone so far on the burning path of repentance. She must see him no more: and what she saw in the gloom was the glow of the Pit itself. She ran to the window and looked down on the quiet world and the few shining lights of the quiet city and the star-shine on the great river. But all these were as nothing to her loneliness and her sudden fear and all the awful threats of hell that came back to her in such an hour. She fell upon her knees and tried to pray and found herself murmuring, "Tchorch, dear Tchorch." He was coming back to her that night and was glad to come back, for he had no notion, no adequate notion of what a bad man he was. He loved the tenas klootchman, loved her far better, perhaps, than the white woman who had scorned him because of dead Lily's predecessors.

But Lily was now no more than a dead flower unremembered in some spring garden. He was going back to Jenny.

She cried as she prayed to God and said "Tchorch!" George was the little foolish woman's prayer, and it may be a good one. The name of the Beloved is for ever a prayer, tillikum.

It was nearly ten o'clock when Sam looked in. He did not think Quin would come now. It was late for the S.S. Yosemite.

"You all light, Missus?" he asked.

And she said that she was all right and Sam went away down to Wong's shack for an hour's Fan-tan. He hoped to make a few dollars easily, so that he could go back China-side and buy one "litty piecee waifo" for himself so that he could have children to attend to his ashes and his kindly paternal spirit.

But Jenny saw her spirit, her soul, her body, in the flames.

She must go back to Pete, and ask him to forgive her. He would beat her badly, she knew, and he would tear her "dless" from her and speak things of shame.

"I have shem," she said. She heard Sam go down the path singing a high-pitched quavering Chinese song. When he was quite gone she began to weep, and wept until she was ill. She stumbled blindly round the room, and went into the bedroom and kissed things of George's, and the very bed itself, and then went out into the darkness. In that hour, the poor child forgot how beautifully she was dressed. She stumbled in light shoes down the path, and as she went she wished she were dead. For Pete would be cruel. He would beat her and take her back.

"I'm very wicked," she said, weeping. George would be unhappy. She turned with her empty arms outstretched to the hill above her, to the empty house. George had been very good to her.

She passed Wong's shack. Sam was in there with half a dozen others, and they were hard at it gambling. After Wong's came Skookum Charlie's and then Indian Annie's. The next shack was Pete's. She sank down in the darkness between the two shanties in a state of fear and stupor. In front of her was shame and cruelty and behind her the fires of hell. But she wanted to be good.

There was no light in Pete's shack. When she saw that, she hoped for one despairing moment that he had gone away. Yet she knew that if he had gone George would have told her. Most likely he was with Indian Annie. He would be at least half-drunk. She felt dreadfully beaten. There was a roar of bestial silly laughter from Indian Annie's.

From down the river almost abreast of Lulu Island there came the sound of a steamer's whistle. It meant nothing to her and Sam did not hear it. Annie's door opened and Annawillee ran out reeling. She was going home to Chihuahua and had to pass Jenny, crouching on the sawdust in silks and fine linen.

"Oh," groaned Jenny as Annawillee came along crooning in mournful tones her old ballad that said she was "keely." When she was close to Jenny she reeled and recovered and stood for a moment straddle-legs. She hiccupped and in the clear darkness saw Jenny without knowing her.

"Who you?" she hiccupped.

Then she saw who it was, and burst into idiotic laughter.

"Oh, Jenny klootchman," she screamed. And Pete came out of Annie's to go home.

"What's that, Annawillee?" he asked in the thick voice of liquor. "What you say, eh?"

Annawillee forgot there was money and drink in Pete's not knowing, and she stood there laughing—laughing as if her sides would split.

"Your klootchman Jenny she come home," said Annawillee. And Jenny groaned as Pete came running.

Before he spoke a word, he kicked her.

"You damn klootchman," he said. He took her by the hair and dragged her along the ground while Annawillee still laughed. And Jenny screamed.

"Where's your man now, ha?" said Pete, thickly. "I tink I kill you now."

The Yosemite came alongside her wharf as if it were bright day and Quin leapt ashore.

As Pete dragged her, Jenny got upon her knees and fell. And again she half-rose and again fell, and under his brutal grip of her hair her scalp seemed a flame of agony. She was sorry she had determined to be good and to repent. She screamed dreadfully and many heard. Some shrugged their shoulders, for screams in Shack-Town were only too common. Yet some came out of their houses. Among them was Chihuahua. Indian Annie came too, and before Pete had got his wife to his own door, there were others, among them two Chinamen from an overcrowded shanty further up the road. And still they did not interfere. Jenny was Pete's klootchman and she had run away. Like a fool she had come back, and must suffer. There was none among them that dared to interfere: for they feared a knife.

And as George Quin came ashore he heard Jenny's screams. "Another drunken row," he said carelessly as he faced the hill to his lonely house. He was very glad to get back home to his tenas klootchman, for he hated loneliness. He said "poor little Jenny" as he walked.

There was now a crowd about poor Jenny, for more came running, more Siwashes, among them Skookum Charlie, and more Chinamen. But still no one interfered, though Annawillee shrieked even more than Jenny. She implored Chihuahua to kill Pete. But Chihuahua booted Annawillee and made her howl on her own account.

"She run way and come back," said Chihuahua. "If she mine I kill her, carajo!"

And Pete started kicking Jenny. Once and again she cried out, and then the last of all who looked on came like a fury at Pete. The bleared and haggard and horrible old Annie was the one who had the courage, and the only one.

"Aya, you damn Pete," she screamed. She got her claws in Pete's long black hair and pulled him down. She was a bundle of flying rags with a savage cat in them. If Jenny were killed she would be nothing to Annie, but while she lived she was worth drinks. And perhaps Annie loved the little klootchman. Who can tell?

She and Pete rolled together on the dusty road, and the onlookers shrieked with laughter. Quin heard it as he climbed.

"The row's over," said Quin.

More came out of the huts, and this time Wong, old Wong, the philosopher was among them. And with him came Lung and Wing, and at last Sam. The Chinamen stood outside the circle of the Siwashes and chattered. The first told the others that Pete had killed his wife, and now was killing someone else. The devilish twisting bundle in the dusty road revolved and squealed. But Annawillee howled by the side of Jenny, who lay insensible. Skookum struck a light, and it shone upon the poor girl. It showed her dress of scarlet, and Sam's quick eyes saw it. He ran in quickly towards her, though the wise Wong held him back. Chinamen never join in alien rows if they can help it. It is wisest not to, and they have much wisdom. Skookum's match went out. Sam lighted another and knelt beside Jenny.

"'Ullo, Chinaman," grinned Skookum, "you tink she dead, you tink mimaloose?"

Oh, said Sam, this was Mista Quin's Missus right enough. What did she want here? He called to Wong, who came calmly, unhurriedly. Sam spoke to him in their own tongue, and then Sam, who was as quick to catch as Wong was wise to suggest, cried out suddenly that the tenas klootchman was dead. He took her in his arms and ran with her to Wong's shack. And as he ran Pete got up from Annie, whom he had choked into stillness. But his torn face bled and one eye was nearly on his cheek. He kicked Annie as she lay, and then turned to where he had left Jenny.

"Where my klootchman go?" he demanded.

They told him in a dreadful chorus that she was dead, and he staggered back against his shack.

"Where is she?"

"Wong take her."

They believed wise old Wong a physician, for Chinamen have strange gifts.

"I go see," said Pete.

"No, you run 'way," said Skookum urgently. He believed Jenny was dead.

"Mus' I run?" asked Pete with a fallen jaw.

"Dey hang you, Pete," screamed Annawillee joyfully. Old Annie sat up in the road.

"Where I go?" asked Pete. "I wis' I never see Jenny."

He burst into tears. They brought him a bottle, and told him to "dlink." They gave him advice to go down the river, up the river, to the Inlet, to the Serpentine, oh, anywhere from the Police.

"I go," said Pete. He drank.

"I—I—go," said Pete. He drank again, and fell and lay like a log.

"Now they catch Pete and hang him," screamed Annawillee. Annie staggered across to him and kicked him in the face.

"Pig Pete," said Annie.

Quin came to his empty house and called to tenas Jenny. And then to Sam. When no answer came he ran through the hall into the empty room where the lamp was. On the floor he saw the Bible. He understood. He quite understood.

X

There was no doubt at all in George Quin's mind as to what had happened, and perhaps he was not wholly surprised. What did surprise him was his own ferocious anger, and the wave of pity that even swallowed up his wrath.

"My God!" said Quin.

There wasn't a man in the City who knew him a little but was prepared to swear that Quin was a brute, and a devil without any feeling to speak of. It was said that he had killed Lily, the Haida girl, when, as a matter of fact, it was his brother, Cultus Muckamuck as the Siwashes called him, who had done a deed like that. He had treated Lily well. Her people said so. He had treated them well, the greedy brutes!

Now Quin was full of pity, and of jealousy. This Bible had hurt her poor weak mind, no doubt of that: and it had driven her back to Pete, perhaps.

"My God," said Quin again, "where else?"

He remembered the screams he had heard coming from Shack-Town as he landed. And as he remembered he found himself running down the hill in the starlit gloom. He wasn't a very young man either. Quin was nearly forty: hard and set: at times a little stiff. Now he went recklessly.

"If Pete——"

It didn't bear thinking of, so Quin wouldn't think of it. He was jealous, hideously jealous. He could have torn Pete asunder with his powerful hands. He felt his nerves in a network within him, and in his skin. They thrilled like fire.

"My poor little Jenny!"

Why, the fact was that he loved her! When one comes to think of it, this was a monstrous discovery for him to make. He had really never loved anyone, certainly not dead Lily, more certainly not that white woman over in Victoria, though he thought he had. What he felt for Jenny was a revelation; it made him a saint and a devil at once, as passion does even the best and worst of men. And Quin had force and fire, and bone, and muscle and a big heavy head and hands like clip-hooks. Now passion shook him as if he were a rag in the wind.

He came down to Shack-Town, and stopped. He was hot but again he sweated ice. He looked down the road and saw figures moving.

"Which is the shack?" he asked himself.

He went past Wong's house, where Jenny lay on a table with ten jabbering Chinamen around her. He heard a high-low sing-song of their chatter and cursed his boy Sam for leaving the house as he had done.

"I'll kick the damn stuffin' out of him," said Quin savagely.

He passed Indian Annie's and saw the group beyond it, standing about Pete's recumbent body. Skookum Charlie was almost in tears to think that Pete would be hanged. Annie wiped her bloody face with her skirt. Annawillee, howling curses at Pete, sat by her.

"What's all this?" said Quin, coming out of the darkness. He saw Pete, or rather saw a body. He spoke hoarsely.

"Mista Quin, oh!" said Skookum, scrambling to his feet.

"What is it?" asked Quin again. "Kahta mamook yukwa? What do you do here?"

"Pete him kill Jenny," screamed Annawillee. Quin staggered back.

"He, he——"

He pointed at the drunken man.

"Not mimaloose, him dlunk," said Annawillee, "Jenny with Chinaman."

Skookum led Quin, the big Tyee, to Wong's shack.

"If she's dead——" said Quin, looking towards Pete. He opened Wong's door.

The room was eight feet by twelve by ten: it reeked of fierce tobacco and the acrid fumes of "dope." Some of them "hit the pipe," smoked opium. The smell was China; Quin, who had been there, knew it. With the odours of Canton were the odours of bad oil. Three lamps ate up the air. Quin saw a row of whitish masks about the table: some excited, some stupid, one or two villainous. At the head of the table was the quiet majestic head of the old philosopher Wong. He had a great domed skull and a skin of drawn parchment over wide bones. With a sponge he wiped blood from Jenny's face. Sam held a bowl of water. He looked anxious and strange. And Jenny's body, in white linen and crimson silk, fouled with sawdust and blood, lay there quietly.

"Is she dead?" asked Quin.

The philosopher, whose shiny skin declared his love of opium, said she was not dead.

"My tinkee she all light bymby," said Wong, "She belongy you, Tyee?"

"Turn the others out," said the Tyee, and at Wong's word they fled out of the door, and stood in the dark jabbering about Quin having taken Jenny.

Quin turned on Sam.

"Why did you leave the house, Sam? My tell you stop, you damn thief!"

Sam, now as pale as Jenny, threw out his hands in urgent deprecation of Quin's anger.

"My no go out," he lied, "my stay allo tim' with Missus, maskee she go out and my no findee. I lun down here, Mista Quin, lun queek, findee damn Pete hurtee Missus. T'at tlue. My tellee Missus no cly: maskee she lead Bible and cly. My no can do."

He wrung his hands. Perhaps what he said was true. Quin felt Jenny's pulse and found it at last. He saw she breathed.

"I'll have her home," he said.

They took the door off its hinges, and Sam with the others carried her up to the house. Wong went into town to ask the doctor to come to Quin's at once "chop-chop," and Dr. Jupp came. He found Jenny on the bed moaning a little.

"What's this, Quin?" asked Jupp, who knew Quin well enough.

Quin answered sullenly and told the truth.

"Tut," said Jupp, "some day you'll get knifed, Quin; why can't you get married and leave the klootchmen alone?"

He was a white-bearded old boy, who knew how ignorant he was of medicine. But he knew men. He went over Jenny carefully.

"Two ribs broken," he said, "and the small bone of the left arm. And a little concussion of the brain. I think she'll do, Quin."

"Thank you," said Quin.

Between them they made her comfortable after Jupp had sent for splints and bandages.

"She's very pretty," said Jupp, For Pete hadn't kicked her face. "She's very pretty."

"She's as good as gold, by God!" said Quin.

"Humph," said Jupp. "I'll come in to-morrow morning early. Shall I send you a nurse?"

"I'll sit up with her," said Quin. "You'd only send some cursed white woman with notions."

"Maybe," said Jupp, "they frequently have 'em incurably."

Quin's face was white and hard. He stood up and looked across the bed.

"I tell you this little girl is as good as any white woman in town, Jupp."

Jupp took snuff habitually; he took some now.

"Who the devil said she wasn't?" he asked drily. He left the room.

It was early morning before Jenny became conscious, and even then Quin had great trouble with her. For she was very sick. There was no end to his patience. Nor was there any to Sam's. The boy sat outside on the mat all night.

"My askee Missus no tellee Boss my go playee Fan-tan," he said nervously.

At bright dawn Jenny found Quin half-dozing with his head on the quilt under her hand. She touched his hair tenderly, and he woke up.

"Tchorch," she said feebly, with a heavenly smile, "Tchorch!"

"Yes, little girl," said George.

"I tink I no go away again, Tchorch. I no want to be good, I want to stay with you. What you tink, Tchorch?"

The tears ran down George's face. That's what he thought.

"I'll kick that damn Pete's head in," said George to himself.

"I no want to be good. I jus' want Tchorch," said Jenny.

She closed her eyes and slept.

XI

His friends, even including Skookum Charlie, left Pete where he lay. If a man killed his klootchman and then got pahtlum, or "blind-speechless-paralytic" on something cousin-german to methylated spirit, what could be done with him but let him alone till the police came for him by daylight? Don't forget, tilikums, that none of the officers of the law could come in Sawdust Shack-Town after dark. They would as soon have gone to Cloud Cuckoo Town. It was as much as their cabezas were worth, and that's a hard-wood truth, without knots or shakes. The last time a constable (under the influence of a good but uninstructed superior and some bad whisky) did go into Shack-Town after dark he stayed there in a pool of blood (or what would have been a pool but for the convenient sawdust) till it was broad daylight, and he took much patching-up before he got into running again. After dark we had it to ourselves, Whites, Reds, and all colours who were of the order of the Mill, or the disorder of it. The "bulls" or "cops" or "fingers," as hoboes say, kept order in the orderly uptown streets.

Skookum "quit" and went home. So did Annawillee, whom Chihuahua hauled off as he was doubtful of her morals in the dark. But Annie, whose windpipe was exceedingly sore, went out several times and booted Pete in the ribs where he lay, as a kind of compensation or cough lozenge. However, she let up on him at last and went home to "pound her ear" in the sleep of the just and virtuous. It never even occurred to her that Pete didn't know anything whatsoever about Quin being the man who had kapsuallowed or stolen his dear Jenny. Everybody else knew, Chinamen, Swedes, Lapps, Letts, Finns, Spaniards and a number of whites of the rougher kind who camped in Shack-Town. I knew myself. But the man who ought to have known didn't. It was a sign that life is the same everywhere.

Pete woke up before dawn, as it seems to be a revenge of nature to make drunken men wake when they can't find a drink, and when he woke he hadn't the remotest notion of what had happened to him. He knew that he had a thirst on him of a miraculous intensity, and when he moved he was aware that he had a pain in his side which almost made him forget his thirst. For Annie wore a man's shoes, with heavy soles to them. And when a man is helpless and his ribs open even a woman's kicks can do mischief.

"Oh," said Pete, "ah!"

He rolled over and groaned, poor devil. And, just as the secret dawn began to flame, so the red deeds of the night before began to come up to him. He sat up and his jaw fell.

"Ah," said Pete, "I tink I—I kill Jenny!"

There's a crowd of virtuous ones who will imitate Annie and boot him in the ribs, poor devil. He drank and gambled and played hell and beat his wife and drove her into the arms of Quin. Even a missionary, who ought to know something about such humanity, would disapprove of him. And those whites of high nobility and much money and great station, who are ready, in like cases, to drag their own wretched women by the hair of the head through the bloody sawdust of the Divorce Court, and who hire (at so many guineas and one or two more) some gowned ruffian to boot her in the ribs, will objurgate Pete perhaps, poor chap. He had no chance to know better and now the terrors of the rope and the gallows had hold of him.

Pete was brave enough, even if he did kick klootchmen. As Ginger White knew, he was the best wedger-off thereabouts, and could have got a job at any of the big Mills of the Sound or the Inlet. He could ride a horse and fight a man of his own weight quite well enough. Indeed there was nothing wrong with him but the fact that he was a Sitcum Siwash and given to drink when it was handy. Up at Cultus Muckamuck's, where it wasn't handy, he was as sober as any judge and a deal more sober than some out West. He was brave enough.

But when he thought of being hanged he wasn't brave. He sat up and wondered why he wasn't in the Calaboose or cooler or jail already. He looked round fearfully as if he expected to see Jenny's body there. Then he groaned and felt his ribs. It was odd he should be so sore. But the oddest thing was that he wasn't already jailed.

"I don' b'lieve I kill Jenny after all," said Pete. And as soon as he didn't believe it, he very naturally determined to do it as soon as possible. He staggered to his feet, and made for his shack, thinking that Jenny perhaps was there. Of course it was as empty as an old whisky bottle, and Pete scratched his head. Then the dawn came up, and just about the time that Jenny was murmuring that she didn't want to be good but only wanted "Tchorch," he went out again and ran against Annie, who had also waked up with a thirst and with an idea that it would ease her throat and her mind if she went out and had another go at Pete's ribs.

"Yah, you pig Pete," she said with her jaw out at him and her skinny throat on the stretch.

"Why you call me pig, you damn Annie?" demanded Pete, savagely.

"Because you halo good, no good, damn bad man, try to kill you tenas klootchman," yapped Annie raucously as she spat.

"You a damn fool," said Pete. "Jenny she been away from me——"

"Yah," yelled Annie, "she find a good man, and Mista Quin, he give her good dlesses, he velly kind to Jenny."

It was a blow between the eyes for Pete, and he staggered as if he had been struck. His jaw dropped.

"Mista Quin, kahta mika wau-wau, what you say?" he stammered.

"I say she now Mista Quin's klootchman: he velly good to her. By-by he come and kill you, because you kick his klootchman. Las' night he say he mamook you mimaloose, kill you dead, you pig Pete," she squealed, withdrawing into her house, so that she could slam the door on him if he made a rush. But truly it was the last thing he thought of.

"The Tyee take my klootchman!" he said with a fallen jaw, "the Tyee——"

The boss had taken Jenny!

"Dat tlue, Annie?" he asked weakly.

"Dat tlue, you pig," said Annie.

Pete made a horrid sound in his throat like a strangled scream and Annie slammed and bolted her door and got a bar of iron in her hands as quick as she could move.

"I kill Mista Quin," screamed Pete. "I kill heem!"

He ran to his shack on the instinct to find something then and there to kill the boss with. But he had no weapon, not even a good knife.

"I kill him all same," said Pete. As the men in the South would have said he was "pretty nigh off his cabeza."

He started to work on his shack, and smashed the windows and their frames and then all the wretched furniture in both rooms. By the time the house was an utter wreck he felt a little calmer. But though many heard him none came near. It might be dangerous. Then at last it was daylight: there was a pleasant golden glow, and the river was a stream of gold. The tall Mill chimneys began to smoke, for Scotty's helper fed the fires early.

"I go to work all same," said Pete, "and I see Quin."

He ground his teeth and then took a drink of water, and spat it out. There was nothing that he wouldn't have given for some whisky, but who ever had whisky in Shack-Town early in the morning? He had to do without it. And at last the whistle spoke and the sun shone, and the working bees came out of their hives and went to the Mill.

There was a devil of a wau-wau going on that morning in the Engine-Room, for the place was crowded. Some Chinamen even were allowed to come inside, for they had news to give. The patriarch and philosopher Wong was interrogated by Mac and Shorty Gibbs and Tenas Billy (white man in spite of Tenas).

"Quin—eh, what?" said Tenas Billy with open eyes.

"He took Jenny! Well I'm damned," said Gibbs.

"I never reckoned that slabsided cockeyed roust-about Jack Mottram took her," said Long Mac. "But I own freely I never gave a thought to Quin."

"Oh, he was always a squaw-man," said Ginger White. "What was that talk of a gal called Lily? Wasn't she from Coquitlam?"

"She was a Hydah, but I never seen her," said another. Papp the German intervened.

"She was a bretty gal. I zeen her mit Quin at Victoria; no, at Nanaimo. She died of gonsumption, boys."

They had heard Quin had killed her, kicked her when she was going to be a mother.

"It ain'd drue," said Papp. "Thad was the odder Quin, him dey galls Gultus Muckamuck. When I was ub to Gamloops I saw her grave. Gultus kigged her in the stomag, poor thing, and she died."

"Is it true Pete killed Jenny last night?" asked young Tom Willett, who had just come in.

Wong had told Long Mac all about it and he had told the others. They all told Tom Willett all about it at once.

"Pete hadn't better run up agin Quin this day," said Ginger. "I've lost the best wedger-off I ever struck."

He saw Skookum Charlie grinning in a corner.

"And now I've got to put up with Skookum. I guess Pete has lighted out."

"Pulled his freight for sure," said Tenas Billy. Then Scotty yanked the whistle lanyard and the men sighed and moved off.

And as they moved Pete came in.

"Oh, hell," said those that saw him. They scented trouble quick.

There was no doubt there would be trouble. By all accounts Pete had only just failed to kill the little klootchman, and that he showed up afterwards, when he knew that Quin had cut him out, was proof enough of coming woe.

Ginger White didn't like it. He had no nerve for rows, in spite of his nasty temper, and to have a murderous struggle between the wedger-off and Quin, with guns shooting it might be (though gun-play is rare in B.C.), made him shake. Even if no "guns" came in there would be blood and hair flying, and mauls and wedges and pickareens, and perhaps a jagged slab or two. Ginger remembered the huge nose with which outraged Simmons had decorated him.

"I ain't goin' to let Quin come in ignorant," said Ginger. At the very first pause, while they were rolling a mighty five foot log on the carriage, he shoved his head through the wall to the Engine-Room.

"Say, Scotty, send over to the Office and let Mr. Quin know that that swine Pete has turned up to work."

Scotty nodded.

"And say he looks mighty odd, likely to prove fightable," added Ginger. He went back to the lever.

It was one of his off-days, when he couldn't drive the Mill or the Saws for sour apples. It's the same with everyone. It's no sacred privilege of artists to be off colour. And yet in his way Ginger was an artist. He played on the Mill and made an organ of it: pulled out stops, made her whoop, voix celeste, or voix diabolique. Or he waved his bâton and made the Stick Moola a proper old orchestra, wind and strings, bassoon, harp, lute, sackbut, psaltery and all kinds of raging music. Now he was at a low ebb and played adagio, even maestoso, and was a little flat with it all.

The quick men of the Mill loafed. Long Mac flung off the tightener and put new teeth into his saw with nicely-fitting buckskin. He took it easy. So did everyone. The very Bull-Wheel never groaned. Down below the Lath Mill chewed slowly. The Shingle Mill, though it had all the cedar it could eat, said at slow intervals, "I cut-a-shingle, ah," ending with a yawn instead of a "Phit."

The truth was that everyone was waiting. They loafed with their hands but their minds were quick enough. Tenas Billy of the Lath Mill every now and again climbed up the chute to see if bloodshed was imminent. Shorty Gibbs, the Shingle Sawyer, did the same. The very Chinamen sorting flooring underneath bobbed up like Jacks out of Boxes.

Only Pete never raised his head from his work. When he drove a steel dog into a log he did it with vim and vice.

He smashed Quin's big head every stroke. Quin's head was a wedge under the maul. And it was nine o'clock. Before ten Quin always came into the Mill and stood as it were on deck, looking at his crew as they sailed the Mill through forests, making barren the lives of the green hills fronting the Straits.

As ten drew on the work grew more slack and men's minds grew intense. But a big log was on the carriage, one nigh six foot in diameter. The slab came off, and Pete and Skookum Charlie handled it. Ginger set her for a fifteen-inch cant and sent her at it. Just as the log obscured the doorway Quin came in and no one saw him but Skookum. Pete drove a wedge, and reached out his hand for a loose one. Then he saw Quin. As he saw him he forgot his work, and the saw nipped a little and squealed uneasily. Ginger threw up his angry head and stopped her and saw that Pete saw Quin.

"Here's trouble," said the men. The Pony Saw stopped dead. The Trimmers ran back into their casings. There was silence. The Lath Mill stayed and the Shingle Saw and men's heads came up from below. They heard Quin speak.

"Get off that log," said Quin.

Pete dropped off on the side away from Quin, as quick as a mud-turtle. As he fell upon his feet he grabbed a pickareen lying on the skids and ran round the end of the carriage.

"Look out, Sir," yelled Ginger. A dozen men made a rush.

Long Mac came over two skids at a time. The only man who was near enough to do anything was Skookum Charlie, but he feared Pete and had no mind for any trouble. He was safer on the top of the log. Ginger took a heavy spanner in his hand and went round the other end of the log. He was in time to see Pete rushing at Quin, who had nothing in his hands. Quin was the kind of man who wouldn't have, so much can be said for him.

Now Quin was standing at the opening of the great side chute, down which big cants and bents for bridge-work were thrown sideways. It was a forty-foot opening in the Mill's wall. It was smooth, greasy, sharply inclined. At the foot of it were some heavy eighteen-foot bents for bridge repairing.

"Ah," said Pete. It seemed to Quin that Pete came quick and that the other men who were running came very slow. Perhaps they did, for Pete was as quick on his feet as any cat or cougar. He weighed a hundred and fifty pounds of muscle and light bone. Quin weighed two hundred at the least. He wasn't quick till he was hot.