"Too bad," he said, coldly. "If I can be of any assistance you'll find me down at the shaft-house." And out he walked.
I knew he didn't intend to be inhospitable; that it was just his infernal notions of decency, and that he refused to be a party to anything as devilish as this looked—but it wasn't according to the Alaska code, and it was like a slap in the girl's face.
"I am quite dry," she said. "I'll be going now."
"You will not. You'll stay to supper and drive home by moonlight," says we. "Why, you'd freeze in a mile!" And we made her listen to us.
During the meal Prosser never opened his mouth except to put something into it, but his manner was as full of language as an oration. He didn't thaw out the way a man should when he sees strangers wading into the grub he's paid a dollar a pound for, and when we'd finally sent the young woman off Martin turned on him.
"Young feller," said he—and his eyes were black—"I've rattled around for thirty years and seen many a good and many a bad man, but I never before seen such an intelligent dam' fool as you are."
"What do you mean?" said the boy.
"You've broke about the only law that this here country boasts of—the law of hospitality."
"He didn't mean it that way," I spoke up. "Did you, Monty?"
"Certainly not. I'd help anybody out of trouble—man or woman—but I refuse to mix with that kind of people socially."