“Rather more than that, as I understand it,” she replied. “They are building a town out there, according to my letter. There are over two hundred people there now. At present they’re doing nothing but logging and building the dam; but they say they’ve found ore out there, and in the Spring the railroad is coming and the town will open up.” “And—and you’re going to keep books there this Winter?” She nodded. “They pay well. They’re paying me seventy-five dollars a month and my board.” “And you don’t know anything about the place?” “Except what they’ve written in the letter engaging me.” “And still you’re going out there—to work?” “Of course,” she said cheerfully. “Seventy-five-dollar jobs aren’t to be picked up every day around here.” “I see,” said Toppy. He remembered Harvey Duncombe’s champagne bill of the night before and grew thoughtful. He himself had shuddered a short while before, at waking in a bar where there was no mirror, and he had planned to wire Harvey for five hundred to take him back to civilisation. And here was this delicate little girl—as delicate to look upon as any of the petted and pampered girls he knew back East—cheerfully, even eagerly, setting her face toward the wilderness because therein lay a job paying the colossal sum of seventy-five dollars a month! And she was going alone! A reckless impulse swayed Toppy. He decided not to wire Harvey. “I see,” he said thoughtfully. “I’ll go find this agent. You’d better wait inside the hotel.” He crossed the street and systematically began to search through the six saloons. In the third place he found his man shaking dice with an Indian. The agent was a lean, long-nosed individual who wore thick glasses and talked through his nose. “Yes, I’m the Cameron Dam agent,” he drawled, curiously eying Toppy from head to toe. “Simmons is my name. What can I do for you?” “I want a job,” said Toppy. “A job out at Hell Camp.” The agent laughed shortly at the name. “You’re wise, are you?” he said. “And still you want a job out there? Well, I’m sorry. That load of Bohunks across the street fills me up. I can’t use any more rough labour just at present. I’m looking for a blacksmith’s helper, but I guess that ain’t you.” “That’s me,” said Toppy resolutely. “That’s the job I want—blacksmith’s helper. That’s my job.” The agent looked him over with the critical eye of a man skilfully appraising bone and muscle. “You’re big enough, that’s sure,” he drawled. “You’ve got the shoulders and arms, too, but—let’s see your hands.” Toppy held up his hands, huge in size, but entirely innocent of callouses or other signs of wear. The agent grinned. “Soft as a woman’s,” he said scornfully. “When did you ever do any blacksmithing? Long time ago, wasn’t it? Before you were born, I guess.” Toppy’s right hand shot out and fell upon the agent’s thin arm. Slowly and steadily he squeezed until the man writhed and grimaced with pain.