"We found it raidin' a cache that Harding must a-made," one of the men was explaining. "He was eatin' raw flour an' frozen bacon, an' when we got 'm he was cryin' an' squealin' like a hawk. Look at him! He's all starved, an' most of him frozen. He'll kick at any moment." . . . . . Half an hour later, when the furs had been drawn over the face of the still form in the bunk, Smoke turned to Lucy. "If you don't mind, Mrs Peabody, I'll have another whack at that steak. Make it thick and not so well done." THE RACE FOR NUMBER ONE. I. "Huh! Get on to the glad rags!" Shorty surveyed his partner with simulated disapproval, and Smoke, vainly attempting to rub the wrinkles out of the pair of trousers he had just put on, was irritated. "They sure fit you close for a second-hand buy," Shorty went on. "What was the tax?" "One hundred and fifty for the suit," Smoke answered. "The man was nearly my own size. I thought it was remarkable reasonable. What are you kicking about?" "Who? Me? Oh, nothin'. I was just thinkin' it was goin' some for a meat-eater that hit Dawson in an ice-jam, with no grub, one suit of underclothes, a pair of mangy moccasins, an' overalls that looked like they'd ben through the wreck of the Hesperus. Pretty gay front, pardner. Pretty gay front. Say--?" "What do you want now?" Smoke demanded testily. "What's her name?" "There isn't any her, my friend. I'm to have dinner at Colonel Bowie's, if you want to know. The trouble with you, Shorty, is you're envious because I'm going into high society and you're not invited." "Ain't you some late?" Shorty queried with concern. "What do you mean?" "For dinner. They'll be eatin' supper when you get there." Smoke was about to explain with elaborate sarcasm when he caught the twinkle in the others' eyes. He went on dressing, with fingers that had lost their deftness, tying a Windsor tie in a bow-knot at the throat of the soft cotton shirt. "Wish I hadn't sent all my starched shirts to the laundry," Shorty murmured sympathetically. "I might a-fitted you out." By this time Smoke was straining at a pair of shoes. The thick woollen socks were too thick to go into them. He looked appealingly at Shorty, who shook his head. "Nope. If I had thin ones I wouldn't lend 'em to you. Back to the moccasins, pardner. You'd sure freeze your toes in skimpy-fangled gear like that." "I paid fifteen dollars for them, second-hand," Smoke lamented. "I reckon they won't be a man not in moccasins." "But there are to be women, Shorty. I'm going to sit down and eat with real live women--Mrs Bowie, and several others, so the Colonel told me." "Well, moccasins won't spoil their appetite none," was Shorty's comment. "Wonder what the Colonel wants with you?" "I don't know, unless he's heard about my finding Surprise Lake. It will take a fortune to drain it, and the Guggenheims are out for investment."