Mr. Broad carefully smoothed out the two bills and reverently laid
them to rest in his bank-roll. "Yes, and they got bony mouths. You
got to set your hook or it won't hold."

"Slow pickin's," yawned an honest miner with a pack upon his back.
Attracted by the group at the table, he had dropped out of the
procession in the street and had paused long enough to win a bet
or two. Now he straightened himself and stretched his arms. "These
Michael Strogoffs is hep to the old stuff, Lucky. I'm thinking of
joining the big rush. They say this Klondike is some rich."

Inasmuch as there were no strangers in sight at the moment, the
proprietor of the deadfall gave up barking; he daintily folded and
tore in half a cigarette paper, out of which he fashioned a thin
smoke for himself. It was that well-earned moment of repose, that
welcome recess from the day's toil. Mr. Broad inhaled deeply, then
he turned his eyes upon the former speaker.

"You've been thinking again, have you?" He frowned darkly. With a
note of warning in his voice he declared: "You ain't strong enough
for such heavy work, Kid. That's why I've got you packing hay."

The object of this sarcasm hitched his shoulders and the movement
showed that his burden was indeed no more than a cunning
counterfeit, a bundle of hay rolled inside a tarpaulin.

"Oh, I got a head and I've been doing some heavy thinking with
it," the Kid retorted. "This here Dawson is going to be a good
town. I'm getting readied up to join the parade."