“Haven't you found any eggs yet?” she murmured plaintively to the waiter.
“No, ma'am,” came the answer. “They say somebody's cornered every egg in Dawson. Mr. Slavovitch is trying to buy a few just especially for you. But the fellow that's got the corner won't let loose.”
It was at this juncture that Wild Water beckoned the proprietor to him, and, with one hand on his shoulder, drew his head down. “Look here, Slavovitch,” Wild Water whispered hoarsely, “I turned over a couple of dozen eggs to you last night. Where are they?”
“In the safe, all but that six I have all thawed and ready for you any time you sing out.”
“I don't want 'em for myself,” Wild Water breathed in a still lower voice. “Shir 'em up and present 'em to Miss Arral there.”
“I'll attend to it personally myself,” Slavovitch assured him.
“An' don't forget—compliments of me,” Wild Water concluded, relaxing his detaining clutch on the proprietor's shoulder.
Pretty Lucille Arral was gazing forlornly at the strip of breakfast bacon and the tinned mashed potatoes on her plate when Slavovitch placed before her two shirred eggs.
“Compliments of Mr. Wild Water,” they at the next table heard him say.
Smoke acknowledged to himself that it was a fine bit of acting—the quick, joyous flash in the face of her, the impulsive turn of the head, the spontaneous forerunner of a smile that was only checked by a superb self-control which resolutely drew her face back so that she could say something to the restaurant proprietor.