“It’s somethin’ fierce ashore,” said the oarsman. “I been up fer three days an’ nights steady—there ain’t no room, nor time, nor darkness to sleep in. Ham an’ eggs is a dollar an’ a half, an’ whiskey’s four bits a throw.” He wailed the last, sadly, as a complaint unspeakable.
“Any trouble doin’?” inquired the old man.
“You know it!” the other cried, colloquially. “There was a massacree in the Northern last night.”
“Gamblin’ row?”
“Yep. Tin-horn called ‘Missou’ done it.”
“Sho!” said Dextry. “I know him. He’s a bad actor.” All three men nodded sagely, and the girl wished for further light, but they volunteered no explanation.
Leaving the skiff, they plunged into turmoil. Dodging through the tangle, they came out into fenced lots where tents stood wall to wall and every inch was occupied. Here and there was a vacant spot guarded jealously by its owner, who gazed sourly upon all men with the forbidding eye of suspicion. Finding an eddy in the confusion, the men stopped.
“Where do you want to go?” they asked Miss Chester.
There was no longer in Glenister’s glance that freedom with which he had come to regard the women of the North. He had come to realize dully that here was a girl driven by some strong purpose into a position repellent to her. In a man of his type, her independence awoke only admiration and her coldness served but to inflame him the more. Delicacy, in Glenister, was lost in a remarkable singleness of purpose. He could laugh at her loathing, smile under her abuse, and remain utterly ignorant that anything more than his action in seizing her that night lay at the bottom of her dislike. He did not dream that he possessed characteristics abhorrent to her; and he felt a keen reluctance at parting.
She extended both hands.