“Don’t you?” drawled Jim, leaning on the counter to survey the speaker.  “Well, it looks to me as if you found out, long ago, that all work and no play makes a man a Yankee.”

“I ain’t no Yankee, you kin bet on that!” said the man.

“That’s pretty near incredible,” drawled Jim.

“And I ain’t neither,” declared the gambler, who boasted of being Canadian.  “Don’t you forget that, old boy.”

“No,” Jim slowly replied, “I’ve often noticed that all that glitters ain’t American.”

“Well, you can clear out of here and notice how things look outside,” retorted Parky.

Jim was slowly straightening up when the blacksmith and the teamster entered the place.  They had heard the gambler’s order and were thoroughly astounded.  No man, howsoever poor and unprepared to pay a wretched bill, had ever been treated thus in Borealis before.

“What’s the matter?” said Webber.

“Nuthin’, particularly,” answered Jim, in his slow, monotonous way, “only a difference of opinion.  Parky thinks he’s brainy, and a gentleman—­that’s all.”

“I can see you don’t git another snack of grub in here, my friend,” retorted Parky, adding a number of oaths.  “And for just two cents I’d break your jaw and pitch you out in the street.”

“Not with your present flow of language,” answered Jim.

The teamster inquired, “Why don’t Jim git any more grub?”

“Because I’m running this joint and he ’ain’t got the cash,” said Parky.  “You got anything to say about the biz?”

“Jim’s got a call on me and my cash,” replied the brawny Webber.  “Jim, you tell him what you need, and I’ll foot the bill.”

“I’ll settle half, myself,” added Lufkins.

“Thanks, boys, not this evenin’,” said Jim, whose pride had singular moments for coming to the surface.  “There’s only one time of day when it’s safe to deal with a gambler, and that’s thirteen o’clock.”

“I wouldn’t sell you nothing, anyway,” said Parky, with a swagger.  “He couldn’t git grub here now for no money—­savvy?”

“I wonder why you call it grub, now that it’s come into your greasy hands!” drawled the miner, as he slowly started to leave the store.  “I’d be afraid you’d deal me a dirty ace of spades instead of a decent slice of bacon.”  And, hands in pockets, he sauntered away, vaguely wondering what he should do.

The blacksmith hung for a moment in the balance of indecision, rapidly thinking.  Then he followed where the gray old Jim had gone, and presently overtook him in the road.

“Jim,” he said, “what about poor little Skeezucks?  Say, I’ll tell you what we’ll do:  I’ll wait a little, and then send Field to the store and have him git whatever you need, and pretend it’s all for himself.  Then we’ll lug it up the hill and slide it into the cabin slick as a lead two-bits.”

“Can’t let you do it,” said Jim.

“Why not?” demanded Webber.