The thought occurred with the entrance of Sandy Joyce, who took the empty place at the table on Bill's right. Birdie was hovering near, and, as Sandy took his seat, she suddenly dumped a fresh cup of coffee before the gambler. She giggled coyly as the cup clattered on the bare table. "I ain't set sugar in it, Bill," she said sweetly, and reached towards the sugar-bowl. But the man pushed her arm roughly aside. "Oh, skip!" he cried. "You make me sick." His bearishness in no way disconcerted the girl. She persisted, and dropped two spoonfuls of granulated sugar into his cup. "Some folks need sugar," she remarked, with another giggle, as she moved away. And somehow it was Bill who had suffered loss of dignity. This only helped to aggravate his mood, and he turned his small eyes sharply on Sandy. "I'm needin' someone to work a claim fer me," he said in a voice intended to reach every ear, and as he spoke a curious look came into his eyes. It was half a grin, half a challenge, and wholly meant mischief. The effect was exactly as he had calculated. The entire attention of the room was on him at once, and he warmed as he waited for Sandy's reply. "You--you got a claim?" the widower inquired blankly. Bill licked his lips after devouring a mouthful of pie. "An' why in hell not?" he retorted. Before Sandy could gather an adequate reply, the matter was taken up by a young miner further down the table. "Wher' you got it, Bill?" he inquired, with genuine interest. The gambler swallowed another mouthful of pie, and rammed the rim of crust into his cheek with his thumb, and leisurely devoured it before replying. "I don't see that my claim has anything to do wi' the company present," he said at last, with a dangerous look in his half-grinning eyes. "But, seein' Mr. Joe Brand is kind o' curious, guess he may as well know first as last." "I didn't mean no offense, Bill," apologized the miner, flushing and speaking hurriedly. Bill promptly became sarcastic. "Course you didn't. Folks buttin' in never don't mean no offense. Howsum, guess my claim's on the banks o' Sufferin' Creek. Maybe you feel better now?" He glared down the table, but finally turned again to Sandy. "You ain't pertickler busy 'bout now, so--ther's thirty dollars a week says you ken hev the job. An' I'll give you a percentage o' the gold you wash up," he added dryly. "You on?" Sandy nodded. He didn't quite understand his friend's game. This was the first he had heard of Bill having acquired a claim--and on the river, too. There was only one other man on the river, and--well, Zip's claim was the joke of the camp. He had just formulated a question in his mind, when the words were taken out of his mouth by a heavy-faced prospector further down the table. "Wher' 'bouts on the Creek, Bill?" he inquired. The gambler eyed him intently. "Quite a piece up," he said shortly. A half-smile spread over the prospector's face. "Not nigh--Zip's?" he suggested.