The man shook his head. His jaws were set, and his smile was unpleasing.
“Guess any hurtin’ Zip gets’ll be done by you.”
“Ah, no, no!”
The woman reached out wildly for the letter, but James had passed swiftly out of the room.
CHAPTER XIII
BIRDIE AND THE BOYS
The derelicts of a mining camp must ever be interesting to the student of human nature, so wide is the field for study. But it were better to be a student, simply, when probing amongst the refuse heaps of life’s débris. A sentimentalist, a man of heart, would quickly have it broken with the pity of it all. A city’s tragedies often require search to reveal them, but upon the frontier tragedy stalks unsepulchered in the background of nearly every life, ready to leap out in all its naked horror and settle itself leech-like upon the sympathetic heart, stifling it with the burden of its misery.
No, it is not good to delve into the dark pages of such folks’ lives too closely, unless armored with impenetrable callousness. But one cannot help wondering whence all those living tragedies come. Look at the men. For the most part strong, able creatures, apparently capable of fighting the lusty battle of life with undiminished ardor. Look at the women. They are for the most part thinking women, healthy, capable. And yet––well, nine-tenths of them are not so cut off from their home cities, their friends and relatives, without some more than ordinary reason.