“‘Haven’t had to!’” snorted Campbell in disgust. “Is that all the justification you have? Where’s your pride? Are you a helpless infant that you’re not ashamed to let other people stuff food into your mouth without doing anything for it? I suppose you’ve got money. And where came your money from? Your father? Your mother? No matter. Whoever it came from, they’re the people who’ve been feeding you, but by the great smoked herring! If you stay wi’ David Campbell you’ll have a change, lad. Aye, you’ll learn what it is to earn your bread in the sweat of your brow. And you’ll bless the day you come here—no matter what the reason that made you come, and which I do not want to hear.” Toppy bowed courteously. “I’ve got no come-back to that line of conversation, Mr. Campbell,” he said good-naturedly. “Whenever anybody accuses me of being a bum with money I throw up my hands and plead guilty; you can’t get an argument out of me with a corkscrew.” Old Campbell’s grim face cracked in a genial smile as he rose and led the way to the corner containing the bookshelves. “We will now step into the library,” he chuckled. “Sit ye down.” He pushed one of the easy chairs toward Toppy, and from a cupboard under the reading-table drew a bottle of Scotch whisky of a celebrated brand. Toppy’s whole being suddenly cried out for a drink as his eyes fell on the familiar four stars. “Say when, lad,” said Campbell, pouring into a generous glass. “Well?” He looked at Toppy in surprise as the glass filled up. Something had smitten Toppy like a blow between the eyes——“How can nice boys like you throw themselves away?” And the pity of the girl as she had said it was large before him. “Thanks,” said Toppy, seating himself, “but I’m on the wagon.” The old smith looked up at him shrewdly from the corners of his eyes. “Oh, aye!” he grunted. “I see. Well, by the puffs under your eyes ye have overdone it; and for fleeing the temptations of the world I know of no better place ye could go to than this. For it’s certain neither temptations nor luxuries will be found in Hell Camp while the Snow-Burner’s boss.” “Now you interest me,” said Toppy grimly. “The Snow-Burner—Hell-Camp Reivers—Mr. Reivers—the boss. What kind of a human being is he, if he is human?” Campbell carefully mixed his whisky with hot water. “You saw him manhandle Rosky?” he asked, seating himself opposite Toppy. “Yes; but it wasn’t manhandling; it was brute-handling, beast-handling.” “Aye,” said the Scot, sipping his drink. “So think I, too. But do you know what Reivers calls it? An enlightened man showing a human clod the error of his ways. Oh, aye; the Indians were smart when they named him the Snow-Burner. He does things that aren’t natural.” “But who is he, or what is he? He’s an educated man, obviously—’way above what a logging-boss ought to be. What do you know about him?”