Skiff Miller continued to debate with himself, and Madge stole a glance of exultation to her husband, who looked back warm approval.
“What do you think?” the Klondiker suddenly demanded.
It was her turn to be puzzled. “What do you mean?” she asked.
“D’ye think he’d sooner stay in California?”
She nodded her head with positiveness. “I am sure of it.”
Skiff Miller again debated with himself, though this time aloud, at the same time running his gaze in a judicial way over the mooted animal.
“He was a good worker. He’s done a heap of work for me. He never loafed on me, an’ he was a joe-dandy at hammerin’ a raw team into shape. He’s got a head on him. He can do everything but talk. He knows what you say to him. Look at ’m now. He knows we’re talkin’ about him.”
The dog was lying at Skiff Miller’s feet, head close down on paws, ears erect and listening, and eyes that were quick and eager to follow the sound of speech as it fell from the lips of first one and then the other.
“An’ there’s a lot of work in ’m yet. He’s good for years to come. An’ I do like him. I like him like hell.”
Once or twice after that Skiff Miller opened his mouth and closed it again without speaking. Finally he said: