“_I’d_ be willing enough to miss seeing it,” said Cheviot, “and I’m not squeamish either. But, Lord! some of those faces!” The old man nodded. “I keep away from the water front as much as I can. Can’t stand it. I’ve never seen such despair in human eyes. If there are lost souls on the earth, I’ve seen them on the beach at Nome.” “Well, I dare say a little of it will go a long way with me, too.” “Hildegarde, you’re growing very like your mother.” “Thank you, father,” said the girl, imperturbably. “The trouble is if you insisted on having ‘a little’ of Nome, you might have to take a great deal,” Cheviot said. “Why might I?” He exchanged a look with Mr. Mar. “Come out here, Hildegarde, and I’ll show you.” As she followed to the ship’s side, “What makes the dog howl so?” she asked. “Look! he’ll be out of that little boat in a minute—he’ll be drowned.” Cheviot leaned over. “Shut up!” he called down. “Say, _Red_! D’you hear? Shut up, I tell you!” The dog looked critically at Cheviot, ears cocked, nose pointed, forefeet on the gunwale of the lighter, which was bobbing about at the foot of the _Los Angeles’_ ladder. “Louis, is that father’s Reddy? Oh, I do so want to make friends with him! Red! Red! how d’you do? Be a good dog, we’re coming down in a minute.” “I’ll get one of the sailors to bring him up. Here”—Cheviot adjusted his glass for her—“now look off there to the right—farther, beyond the wreck of the _Pioneer_. Do you see that big tent with the flag?” “Yes.” “Can you see what flag it is?” “It isn’t Stars and Stripes. It looks all yellow.” “Yes.” “Who are the people who have a yellow flag?” “The people who have smallpox. That’s the pest-house.” On their way back they met Blumpitty asking, sadder than ever, if anybody knew how soon quarantine was going to be declared. “Pretty rough on the people who get shut out,” murmured Blumpitty. “Rougher on those who get shut in,” said Cheviot. Joslin was furious at either prospect. “Damned nonsense,” he said, “spoilin’ the finest boom since ’49, all on account of a little smallpox.” They found Mr. Mar in the smoking-room, in the same weary attitude, head hung over his wide breast, hat hung on the sound knee, wooden leg stiffly slanting, eyes among the cigar ashes on the floor. “Whatever else I do, father, I can’t go home without _you_.” “Oh, I’ll take you home, my dear,” said Mar, with alacrity. “I’ve nothing to keep me here now, except my claims at Polaris.” “Oh,” said the girl, losing some of her gloom, “have you got a share in the Mother Lode?” He smiled faintly at miners’ superstition on his daughter’s lips. “I’ve got something worth looking after,” he said, “though, as I told Louis, I wish my good luck wasn’t always so inaccessible. Only two boats touched Polaris last year. I don’t know how it will be this summer. I wasn’t able to go in either of those that have set off so far. But I sent up a man to do the assessment work.”