"Your work is here," the girl protested. "I can't take you away from it."
"Fonny t'ing 'bout work," 'Poleon said, with a grin. "Plenty tam I try to run away from him, but always he catch up wit' me."
"You're a poor man. I can't let you sacrifice too much."
"Poor?" The pilot opened his eyes in amazement. "Mon Dieu! I'm reech feller. Anybody is reech so long he's well an' happy. Mebbe I sell my claim."
"Your claim? Have you a claim? At Dawson?"
The man nodded indifferently. "I stake him las' winter. He's pretty claim to look at—plenty snow, nice tree for cabin, dry wood, everyt'ing but gold. Mebbe I sell him for beeg price."
"Why doesn't it have any gold?" Rouletta was genuinely curious.
"Why? Biccause I stake him," 'Poleon laughed heartily. "Dose claim I stake dey never has so much gold you can see wit' your eye. Not one, an' I stake t'ousan'. Me, I hear dose man talk 'bout million dollar; I'm drinkin' heavy so I t'ink I be millionaire, too. But bimeby I'm sober ag'in an' my money she's gone. I'm res'less feller; I don' stop long no place."
"What makes you think it's a poor claim?"
'Poleon shrugged. "All my claim is poor. Me, I'm onlucky. Mebbe so I don' care enough for bein' reech. W'at I'll do wit' pile of money, eh? Drink him up? Gamble? Dat's fun for while. Every spring I sell my fur an' have beeg tam; two weeks I'm drunk, but—dat's plenty. Any feller dat's drunk more 'n two weeks is bum. No!" He shook his head and exposed his white teeth in a flashing smile. "I'm cut off for poor man. I mak' beeg soccess of dat."