"Verbal," Shorty snapped him short. "It's your say so against
theirs, that's all. Well, anyway--what's your name, pardner?"

"Call me Smoke," said Kit.

"Well, Smoke, you'll have a run for your verbal contract just the
same. This is a plain sample of what to expect. They can sure shed
mazuma, but they can't work, or turn out of bed in the morning. We
should have been loaded and started an hour ago. It's you an' me
for the big work. Pretty soon you'll hear 'em shoutin' for their
coffee--in bed, mind you, and they grown men. What d'ye know about
boatin' on the water? I'm a cowman and a prospector, but I'm sure
tender-footed on water, an' they don't know punkins. What d'ye
know?"

"Search me," Kit answered, snuggling in closer under the tarpaulin
as the snow whirled before a fiercer gust. "I haven't been on a
small boat since a boy. But I guess we can learn."

A corner of the tarpaulin tore loose, and Shorty received a jet of
driven snow down the back of his neck.

"Oh, we can learn all right," he muttered wrathfully. "Sure we can.
A child can learn. But it's dollars to doughnuts we don't even get
started to-day."

It was eight o'clock when the call for coffee came from the tent,
and nearly nine before the two employers emerged.

"Hello," said Sprague, a rosy-cheeked, well-fed young man of twenty-