Reeves grasped his hand in a mighty grip: "I think I understand, old man—a little," he said. "I'll make excuse to Mrs. Reeves."
"Tell her the truth if you want to," growled Brent, turning away, "We'll never meet again."
"You've forgotten something," called Reeves as he extended a hand which held a crisp bill.
Brent examined it. It was a twenty. "What is this—wages or charity?" he asked.
"Wages—and you've earned every cent of it."
"Shoveling dirt, or play acting?" There was a sneer in the man's voice, which Reeves was quick to resent.
"Shoveling dirt," he replied, shortly.
"Men shovel dirt in this camp now for eight or ten."
"I think I am quite capable of judging what a man's services are worth to me," answered Reeves, "Good bye." He turned to the door, and Brent crumpled the bill into his pocket and disappeared in the whirling snow.
Arriving at his cabin he carefully deposited two