"I'm a chechaquo," he said.

Her bored expression told him that he was stating the obvious. But
he was unabashed.

"I've shed my shooting-irons," he added.

Then she recognized him, and her eyes lighted.

"I never thought you'd get this far," she informed him.

Again, and greedily, he sniffed the air.

"As I live, coffee!" He turned and directly addressed her. "I'll
give you my little finger--cut it right off now; I'll do anything;
I'll be your slave for a year and a day or any other odd time, if
you'll give me a cup out of that pot."

And over the coffee he gave his name and learned hers--Joy Gastell.
Also, he learned that she was an old-timer in the country. She had
been born in a trading post on the Great Slave, and as a child had
crossed the Rockies with her father and come down to the Yukon. She
was going in, she said, with her father, who had been delayed by
business in Seattle, and who had then been wrecked on the ill-fated
Chanter and carried back to Puget Sound by the rescuing steamer.

In view of the fact that she was still in her blankets, he did not
make it a long conversation, and, heroically declining a second cup
of coffee, he removed himself and his quarter of a ton of baggage
from her tent. Further, he took several conclusions away with him: