the poems had always chilled her, though she had felt vaguely
their splendid pulse and swing. This was the girl's first venture
from a sheltered life. She had not rubbed elbows with the world
enough to find that Truth may be rough, unshaven, and garbed in
homespun. The book confirmed her analysis of the junior partner.

Pendent from a hook was a worn and blackened holster from which
peeped the butt of a large Colt's revolver, showing evidence of
many years' service. It spoke mutely of the white-haired Dextry,
who, before her inspection was over, knocked at the door, and,
when she admitted him, addressed her cautiously:

"The boy's down forrad, teasin' grub out of a flunky. He'll be up
in a minute. How'd ye sleep?"

"Very well, thank you," she lied, "but I've been thinking that I
ought to explain myself to you."

"Now, see here," the old man interjected, "there ain't no
explanations needed till you feel like givin' them up. You was in
trouble--that's unfortunate; we help you--that's natural; no
questions asked--that's Alaska."

"Yes--but I know you must think--"

"What bothers me," the other continued irrelevantly, "is how in
blazes we're goin' to keep you hid. The steward's got to make up
this room, and somebody's bound to see us packin' grub in."

"I don't care who knows if they won't send me back. They wouldn't