Lucky Jim opened the door for his companion and followed him to the street.
"I wants yuh to come around to my shack, Lucky. I've a proposition to make yuh."
"Right," returned Lucky Jim.
They started up the waterfront.
The young moon crested with silver the snow-billows of the seemingly interminable flat across the frozen river. The air was absolutely soundless, and cold enough to bite like fire. Totatla City, a one-sided street of log cabins and stores half-buried in snow, seemed deserted.
They had traveled scarce a hundred yards when Chenoa Pete slipped out of the Red Fox and peered cautiously up the street. He kept his eye on them until they entered Dad Manslow's cabin, then hastened in that direction.
Chenoa Pete was a man who didn't believe in hard work. He did a little gambling, some polite stealing, and a bit of rough stuff when the opportunity presented itself. A man who lived by his wits. Mike Haggart was his side-kick.
He approached Dad Manslow's cabin with the caution of a cat on the hunt. When he arrived at the door he turned back the hood of his parka and began to listen with all his might.
"—I've drank yore hootch ever since yuh struck the camp," Dad was saying, "and enjoyed yore comp'ny mightily. The spirit, as ye might say, of Alaska is strong in yuh. Yo're the man I've bin a-lookin' fur fur a year. Are yuh open fur a proposition this summer that'll net yuh anywheres frum three to five thousand dollars?"
"Hold on, Dad," cautioned Lucky Jim. "Since I struck Totatla City I've heard whisperin's about you hitting the camp a year ago last fall with a couple of thousand in dust, and believe me, there's a few who would give something to know where you got it. I don't. A secret ain't a secret when two know it, and you really don't know me from one of the ravens down on the bluff. Besides, I'm so lucky myself that—so to speak—I've always got a little pot of gold in the hole."