Winton flushed angrily. It was no light thing to be mocked before his
men, to say nothing of Miss Carteret standing within arm's reach on
the railed platform of the Rosemary.

"Perhaps I shall give you back that word before we are through, Mr.
Darrah," he snapped. Then to the eddying mob-wave: "Tools up, boys. We
camp here for breakfast. Branagan, send the Two-fifteen down for the
cook's outfit."

The Rajah dropped his cigar butt in the snow and trod upon it.

"Possibly you will faveh us with your company to breakfast in the
Rosemary, Misteh Winton--you and Misteh Adams. No? Then I bid you a
vehy good morning, gentlemen, and hope to see you lateh." And he swung
up to the steps of the private car.

Half an hour afterward, the snow still whirling dismally, Winton and
Adams were cowering over a handful of hissing embers, drinking their
commissary coffee and munching the camp cook's poor excuse for a
breakfast.

"Jig's up pretty definitely, don't you think?" said Adams, with a
glance around at the idle track force huddling for shelter under the
lee of the flats and the octopod.

Winton shook his head and groaned. "I'm a ruined man, Morty."

Adams found his cigarette case.