restrictions upon his mode of feeding his face. He could eat with his
knife with impunity. There was no etiquette-mad society digging him in
the ribs, and jerking on the reins in protestation at every one of his
natural inclinations; and he could use his own knife to butter his
sourdough bread. For a man who expected to emerge into the sunshine of
society, he was giving himself very inadequate training. He was as near
the aboriginal as it was possible for a white man to approach. He was a
Siwash (male Indian) with one exception--his love of the coin. But then,
he had an object in this ambition; and a fault, if it is a means to a
worthy end, must be commended. He had this propensity developed to the
most pronounced degree. It was a disease with him, for which there was
no cure. In outward appearance he was a typical B.C. specimen of the
obsolete "coureur de bois" of eastern Canada during the seventeenth
century.

The interior of his "dug-out" was more like an Indian kik-willy (ancient
Indian house) than the dwelling of a modern Anglo-Saxon. The walls were
composed of the rough timbers, and the chinks were stuffed with rags and
old newspapers. A few smoke-begrimed pictures were hanging on the walls,
and a calendar of the year 1881 still glared forth in all its ancient
uselessness, leading one back into a past decade. If he broke the rules
of etiquette by eating with his knife, he also smashed those of modesty
by utilizing his air-tight heater as a cuspidor, for it was streaked
white with evaporated saliva.

How this crude bud ever anticipated blooming out into a society blossom
was a conundrum. Perhaps he had some secret method buried in the same
box with his hoarded coin. His long evenings were passed reading the
_Family Herald and Weekly Star_ and the _Ashcroft Journal_ by
candle-light; for those were the only papers he would subscribe for. His