These woes on being told grew bigger, till they became huge once more. They were like a drift in a bitter norther, where a log can begin a mountain that stays all progress.
"I tink I burn his Mill," said Pete as he lay awake. It was a great idea. It grew like a fire, and would have come to something undoubtedly if by an accident old Smith hadn't put a pail of cold discouragement upon the flame as it twisted and crackled in the hot mind of Pete. The news came that Thomas Fergusson's store at Yale had been burnt down, and Smith explained to John and Pete and some store loafer (there always are store loafers everywhere: if there's a cracker cask at the North Pole some loafer holds it down against any South wind) that possibly Fergusson had made money out of the fire by the means of some very queer magic known as insurance, or "insoolance" as John and Pete said. They scratched their heads, for they knew nothing of "fire-bugs," not having read the comic New York papers. But the fact remained that according to old Smith, to burn down the Mill might mean to make Quin richer.
"I won't burn down his damn Moola," said Pete crossly.
Yet couldn't he do something else? Pete lay half one Sunday thinking over it, and came to the conclusion that there was a very reasonable revenge to be had fairly cheap. When he worked at the Mill at Kamloops he had been told of what one man had done at Port Blakeley.
"I do it," said Pete savagely. He heard John's klootchman laugh, and thought again of Jenny. The stronger he grew the more bitterly he missed her. And yet if she had come back to him now he would have thrust her out into the frost.
In this unhappiness of his heart it was natural he should turn to his sister Mary, up at Kamloops or the back of it, who was Cultus Muckamuck's klootchman. And after all old Cultus wasn't such a bad sort. Hadn't they got drunk together, as "drunk as boiled owls in a pan of hot water"? Cultus was a mean old hunks, and a bit rougher than his younger brother, but there was none of the high-toned dandy about Cultus. He would sit on a log with a man, and yarn and swap lies, and fetch out a bottle and say, "Take a drink, Pete." Oh, on the whole Cultus was a good sort. If he did whack Mary, perhaps Mary deserved it. The klootchmen wanted hammering at intervals and a good quirting did them good.
"Firs' I go down to the Moola," said Pete, "and I go back to Kamloops. I make it hot for George Quin when the Moola starts up. I spoil heem, ah, I spoil heem and Shinger White."
The hard frost lasted a month and then a quiet and insidious Chinook came out of the Pacific, a wandering warm West wind, and the ice relented and released the River. It was not very thick and soon departed on the ebb and flood of the tides, swaying in loose floes back and forth. And then the rain began and it looked like a strange soft winter for a little while.
"I go now," said Pete. He spoke to old Smith, asking for a day or two to go down to the City.
"You ain't thinking of killing Quin or your klootchman, sonny?" said Smith, who knew all about it.