Having cleared the deck, Mrs. Mar by a cross fire of questions drew forth a story, no—queer fragments, rather, of the history of the Blumpittys’ fight for existence during sixteen months spent in a tent upon the icy tundra, with a few Esquimau neighbors and no white soul for many a mile. Mrs. Mar forgot to look at the clock, even grew strangely friendly with Blumpitty, in her absorption in so congenial an occupation as drawing out and clarifying an inarticulate, rather muddled male. Finally, “The papers,” quoted Mrs. Mar, “the papers say that all the claims are staked.”
Without the smallest emphasis, “I know that ain’t so,” said the man dully.
“How do you know?”
“I been there.” Mrs. Mar digested this. “I know,” Blumpitty went on, “a place where no white man but me and one other has set foot—rich in gold.”
“Where’s that other man?”
“Under the tundra ’long o’ the gold.”
She tried not to betray her interest. She even succeeded. “And that’s the place you’re going up now to work?”
“No, ma’am, I ain’t talked to folks about that place.”
Mrs. Mar waited to hear why.
But Blumpitty seemed to have no intention of enlightening her. “The property we’re goin’ to work this summer is the nineteen claims belongin’ to Blumpitty & Co., up on Glaysher Crick. They’re already located, an’ recorded, an’ surveyed, an’ a year’s assessment work done.”