He was cleanly shaven and cleanly and neatly dressed. His eyes were big and sky blue in colour. They were eyes that could be warm or cold at will. Just then, they were passively cold. His was a good face, reflecting strength and determination, while honesty, straight-forwardness and absolute fearlessness lent a charm to it that it otherwise would have lacked. After all, it was the glory of his stature that attracted me, as he stood, framed by the door, dressed in his high logging boots, with khaki-coloured trousers and a shirt to match; a soft felt hat on the back of his head set a little sportily to one side. Myself an admirer of the human form, a lover of muscle and sinew, strength, agility and virility, it always was the physique of a person that arrested my attention. What a man this was for a woman to love! flashed the thought through my mind. Gazing at him, I could not help feeling my own insignificance in comparison, although, far down inside of me, there was a hungry kind of longing to match my agility and science against his tremendous brute strength, a wondering what the outcome would be. It was, however, merely a feeling of friendly antagonism. But this was the fancy of a passing moment, for I was waiting for the big fellow to speak. He did speak, and rather spoiled the impression. "What'n the hell kind of a dump is this anyway?" he exploded. I was hit as with a brickbat, but I tried not to show it. "This is the Golden Crescent Trading Company," I answered quietly and, if anything, with an assumption of meekness which I was far from feeling;--just to see how much rope this big fellow would take to hang himself with. I suppose my tone made him think that his verbal onslaught had been as effective as it had been short. He turned his eyes on me for the first time. They fixed on mine, and never once flickered. "You--don't--say!" he returned, in measured words. Then he flared up again. "Say!--who's the boss here?" "I am," I retorted, getting warm. He came over to the middle of the floor. "And where'n the hell do I come in?" he asked. "Don't know, I'm sure, mister; and I don't care very much either. But I have an idea that you or I will go out, quick, if you don't cool down." "Here!--you cut that stuff out." He came up to the counter, clenching his huge hands. "I'm Joe Clark,--see." "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Clark. I'm George Bremner." "Who'n the hell's George Bremner?" he burst out. "That's just what I was wondering in regard to Joe Clark," I retorted, returning glare for glare. "But look you here,--whoever you may be, you may get off with this sort of language elsewhere, but it doesn't have any effect on the man who is running the Golden Crescent Trading Company." He tried hard to hold himself together. "Guess you're one of them new-broom-sweep-clean smart Alicks," he said. "About as smart as you are civil, Mr. Clark."