“I do like that woman,” said he with a quaintly deliberate seriousness. “That's the finest woman in this district.” Thorpe felt the quick moisture rush to his eyes. There was something inexpressibly touching in those simple words as Big Junko uttered them. “And when you are married,” he asked, “what are you going to do? Are you going to stay on the river?” “No, I'm goin' to clear a farm. The woman she says that's the thing to do. I like the river, too. But you bet when Carrie says a thing, that's plenty good enough for Big Junko.” “Suppose,” suggested Thorpe, irresistibly impelled towards the attempt, “suppose I should offer you two hundred dollars a month to stay on the river. Would you stay?” “Carrie don't like it,” replied Junko. “Two hundred dollars is big wages,” persisted Thorpe. “It's twice what I give Radway.” “I'd like to ask Carrie.” “No, take it or leave it now.” “Well, Carrie says she don't like it,” answered the riverman with a sigh. Thorpe looked at his companion fixedly. Somehow the bestial countenance had taken on an attraction of its own. He remembered Big Junko as a wild beast when his passions were aroused, as a man whose honesty had been doubted. “You've changed, Junko,” said he. “I know,” said the big man. “I been a scalawag all right. I quit it. I don't know much, but Carrie she's smart, and I'm goin' to do what she says. When you get stuck on a good woman like Carrie, Mr. Thorpe, you don't give much of a damn for anything else. Sure! That's right! It's the biggest thing top o' earth!” Here it was again, the opposing creed. And from such a source. Thorpe's iron will contracted again. “A woman is no excuse for a man's neglecting his work,” he snapped. “Shorely not,” agreed Junko serenely. “I aim to finish out my time all right, Mr. Thorpe. Don't you worry none about that. I done my best for you. And,” went on the riverman in the expansion of this unwonted confidence with his employer, “I'd like to rise to remark that you're the best boss I ever had, and we boys wants to stay with her till there's skating in hell!” “All right,” murmured Thorpe indifferently. His momentary interest had left him. Again the reactionary weariness dragged at his feet. Suddenly the remaining half mile to town seemed very long indeed. Chapter LIII Wallace Carpenter and Hamilton, the journalist, seated against the sun-warmed bench of Mrs. Hathaway's boarding-house, commented on the band as it stumbled in to the wash-room. “Those men don't know how big they are,” remarked the journalist. “That's the way with most big men. And that man Thorpe belongs to another age. I'd like to get him to telling his experiences; he'd be a gold mine to me.” “And would require about as much trouble to 'work,'” laughed Wallace. “He won't talk.”