"Nevertheless," said Shorty, considering the matter fully, "I'd rather be me than George Quin with Pete loose on the tear. The man that spiked our boom and hunted old Cultus Muckamuck's steers into a dry cañon and then hammered him to pulp with a club mayn't have sand, but he's dangerous." "He's the kind of Johnny that'd fire the Mill," said Ginger White, who so far had held his tongue. "White's on the target," said Mac as the whistle blew. But he forgot about it when the song and the dance of the day commenced. There's fine forgetfulness in work. Quin was as foolish as the rest of them. That is to say, he talked to the police and came to the conclusion that Pete wasn't likely to be on hand now and for ever after. He knew what Mac knew and despised the average Coast Indian. It was true enough they weren't up to much unless they were "full," full, that is, of liquor. And a man like Quin knew by instinct the weakness there was in such as Pete, in spite of his now bloody record. For Quin had a fine square jaw and Pete hadn't. But then Quin was incapable of underhand night work. And he didn't know that Pete was like a rat in a trap, as a criminal is in British Columbia. And there was another thing. He knew that Ned wasn't dead, by any means. It never occurred to him that Pete believed he had killed Cultus and must be desperate if he wasn't out of the country. "I wish the swine was dead," said George Quin. "I believe I'd marry Jenny." She had twined herself round his heart, and when he saw her nursing the one child he had ever been father of he was as soft as cream with her. Not a soul about the City would have believed it was George Quin if they had seen him with his naked boy in his arms. Only the Chinamen knew about it, for Sam told them, being delighted, as they all are, with male offspring. They really sympathised with the big boss as they thought of their own wives far away in "China-side" and the children some of them hadn't seen. Old Wong wept secretly, for he had worked and gone home to marry a wife, and she had died. It wasn't likely he would ever make enough money to buy another, unless he got it by gambling. He was as bad at that as old Papp, the German, who still hadn't made sufficient to go home to "California," in spite of all his work, and those muscles which made him feel as if he would "braig dings" if he didn't toil. Yes, tilikum, George Quin, "Tchorch," was happy, as happy as he could be.