“I suppose so,” said Toppy, yawning. “What’s this Hell Camp thing? Pleasant little name.” “An’ pleasant little place,” supplemented the man mockingly. “Ain’t you never heard ‘bout Hell Camp? ‘Bout its boss—Reivers—the ‘Snow-Burner’? Huh! Perhaps you want hire out there for job?” “Perhaps,” agreed Toppy. “What is it?” “Oh, it ain’t nothing so much. Just big log-camp run by man named Reivers—that’s all. Indians call him Snow-Burner. Twenty-five, thirty miles out in the bush, at Cameron Dam. That’s all. Very big camp. Everybody who comes to this town is going out there to work, or else hiding out.” “I see. But why the name?” “Hell Camp?” The bartender’s grin appeared again; then, as if a second thought on the matter had occurred to him, he assumed a noncommittal expression and yawned. “Oh, that’s just nickname the boys give it. You see, the boys from camp come to town here in the Spring. Then sometimes they raise ——. That’s why some people call it Hell Camp. That’s all. Cameron Dam Camp is the right name.” “I see.” Toppy was wondering why the man should take the trouble to lie to him. Of course he was lying. Even Toppy, with his bleared eyes, could see that the man had started to berate Hell Camp even as he had berated Rail Head and had suddenly switched and said nothing. It hurt Toppy’s head. It wasn’t fair to puzzle him this morning. “I see. Just—just a nickname.” “That’s all,” said the bartender. Briskly changing the subject he said: “Well, how ’bout it, stranger? You going to have eye-opener this morning?” “I suppose so,” said Toppy absently. He again turned his attention to the view from the window. On the low stairs of the hotel were seated half a dozen men whose flat, ox-like faces and foreign clothing marked them for immigrants, newly arrived, of the Slavic type. Some sat on wooden trunks oddly marked, others stood with bundles beneath their arms. They waited stolidly, blankly, with their eyes on the hotel door, as oxen wait for the coming of the man who is going to feed them. Toppy looked on with idle interest. “I didn’t think you could see anything like that this far away from Ellis Island,” he said. “What are those fellows, brother?” “Bohunks,” said the bartender with a contemptuous jerk of the head. “They waiting to hire out for the Cameron Dam Camp. The agent he comes to the hotel. Well, what you going to have?” “Bring me a whisky sour,” said Toppy, without taking his eyes off the group across the street. The half-breed grinned and placed before him a bottle of whisky and a glass. Toppy frowned. “A whisky sour, I said,” he protested. “When you get this far in the woods,” laughed the man, “they all come out of one bottle. Drink up.” Once more Toppy shuddered. He was bored by this time. “Your jokes up here are worse than your booze,” he said wearily.