Mansell seated himself on the bed unbidden.
"Wal," he began expansively, "I'm kind o' holiday-makin', as they say. Y' see," he went on with a leer, "I worked so a'mighty hard gittin' back from the Yukon, I'm kind o' fatigued. Savee? Guess I'll git to work later. Say, one o' them for me?" he finished up, pointing at the glasses.
Truscott nodded, and Mansell helped himself greedily.
The former fell in with the other's mood. He found him very easy to deal with. It was just a question of sufficient drink.
"Well, I don't believe in work, anyway. That is unless it happens to be my pleasure, too. I worked hard up at Dawson, but it was my pleasure. I made good money, too—a hell of a sight more than you or anybody else ever had any idea of."
"You ran a dandy game," agreed the sawyer.
"With plenty of customers with mighty fat rolls of money."
Mansell nodded.
"I was a fool to quit you," he said regretfully.
"You were. But it isn't too late. If you aren't yearning to work too hard."