through, they can't, or they won't, understand. They're hateful to me.
Petersen, the mail-carrier, for instance! I don't know why I'm telling
you this. You're strangers. You're probably just like Petersen."

"I know why you're telling us," Thomas said, slowly. "It's because
I--because we're _not_ like Petersen and the others; it's because
I--we can help you."

"Help me?" sneered the girl. "How?"

"I don't know, yet. But you're out of place here. There's a place for
you somewhere; I'll find it."

Ponatah shook her head wearily. "Mary says I belong here, with my
people."

"No. You belong with white people--people who will treat you well."

This time the girl smiled bitterly. "They have treated me worse than
my own people have. I know them, and--I hate them."

"Ain't you the sore-head, now?" Laughing Bill murmured. "You got a
hundred-per-cent. grouch, but if the old medicine-man says he'll put
you in right, you bet your string of beads he'll do it. He's got a
gift for helpin' down-and-outers. You got class, Kid; you certainly
rhinestone this whole bunch of red men. Why, you belong in French
heels and a boodwar cap; that's how I dope you."

"There must be a chance for a girl like you in Nome," Thomas
continued, thoughtfully. "You'd make a good hand with children.