"Well, Jack, are you going to head a tribe of Utes to drive us back across the big sea?"
"No, father, I guess I shall have all the work of philanthropy I need in piloting this young heathen through the 'hell gate' of learning into the whirling vortex of society and accomplishments," laughingly answered Jack.
"When will you start on this quest?" timidly asked his mother.
"Not later than the first of March, for I must be at Rock Creek soon after that time, and part of the trip is via the snow shoe route."
Just then Hazel and Jack's sisters knocked imperatively for admission.
"Oh—ee, Jack, is that real gold dust in that nasty looking bag?" said Miss Hazel, as she sniffed at the pouch suspiciously.
"Yes, Miss Tenderfoot, that is the real stuff."
"What is that you call me, tenderfeet? Why, my feet are not tender."
"Oh, that is the mountain name for what sailors call 'landlubbers,' and—say, when I get a couple of wagon loads of that you will tack my name onto your own with a little hyphen, won't you, dear?"
"I say, Jack," broke in one of his sisters, "did you run across any good looking white men, with lots of money, that want some one nice, 'to cook for two?'" And the dear little apron-bedecked bit of sunshine pirouetted on her toes in gleeful anticipation of Jack's reply.