Stella silently indicated the reservoir at one end of the range. The man ladled his basin full. The fumes of whisky, the unpleasant odor of his breath offended her, and she drew back. Fyfe looked at her as the man went out.
"What?" he asked.
She had muttered something, an impatient exclamation of disgust. The man's appearance disagreeably reminded her of the scene she had observed through the bunkhouse window. It stung her to think that her brother was fast putting himself on a par with them—without their valid excuse of type and training.
"Oh, nothing," she said wearily, and turned to the sputtering bacon.
Fyfe put his foot up on the stove front and drummed a tattoo on his mackinaw clad knee.
"Aren't you getting pretty sick of this sort of work, these more or less uncomfortable surroundings, and the sort of people you have to come in contact with?" he asked pointedly.
"I am," she returned as bluntly, "but I think that's rather an impertinent question, Mr. Fyfe."
He passed imperturbably over this reproof, and his glance turned briefly toward the dining room. Katy John was still noisily at work.
"You hate it," he said positively. "I know you do. I've seen your feelings many a time. I don't blame you. It's a rotten business for a girl with your tastes and bringing up. And I'm afraid you'll find it worse, if this snow stays long. I know what a logging camp is when work stops, and whisky creeps in, and the boss lets go his hold for the time being."
"That may be true," she returned gloomily, "but I don't see why you should enumerate these disagreeable things for my benefit."