box door, carrying with it the pungent odor of green spruce.

"Good Gawd! Why can't a woman listen to reason?" Tommy lifted his head
from the denser depths and turned upon her a pair of smoke-outraged eyes.

"And why can't a man show his manhood?"

Tommy sprang to his feet with an oath which would have shocked a woman of
lesser heart, ripped loose the sturdy reef-knots and flung back the flaps
of the tent.

The trio peered out. It was not a heartening spectacle. A few water-
soaked tents formed the miserable foreground, from which the streaming
ground sloped to a foaming gorge. Down this ramped a mountain torrent.
Here and there, dwarf spruce, rooting and grovelling in the shallow
alluvium, marked the proximity of the timber line. Beyond, on the
opposing slope, the vague outlines of a glacier loomed dead-white through
the driving rain. Even as they looked, its massive front crumbled into
the valley, on the breast of some subterranean vomit, and it lifted its
hoarse thunder above the screeching voice of the storm. Involuntarily,
Molly shrank back.

"Look, woman! Look with all your eyes! Three miles in the teeth of the
gale to Crater Lake, across two glaciers, along the slippery rim-rock,
knee-deep in a howling river! Look, I say, you Yankee woman! Look!
There's your Yankee-men!" Tommy pointed a passionate hand in the
direction of the struggling tents. "Yankees, the last mother's son of
them. Are they on trail? Is there one of them with the straps to his
back? And you would teach us men our work? Look, I say!"