“One day,” concluded Kraft, solemnly, “there will come to Cypher’s for a plate of beans a millionaire lumberman from Wisconsin, and he will marry Milly.”

“Never!” exclaimed Judkins and I, in horror.

“A lumberman,” repeated Kraft, hoarsely.

“And a millionaire lumberman!” I sighed, despairingly.

“From Wisconsin!” groaned Judkins.

We agreed that the awful fate seemed to menace her.  Few things were less improbable.  Milly, like some vast virgin stretch of pine woods, was made to catch the lumberman’s eye.  And well we knew the habits of the Badgers, once fortune smiled upon them.  Straight to New York they hie, and lay their goods at the feet of the girl who serves them beans in a beanery.  Why, the alphabet itself connives.  The Sunday newspaper’s headliner’s work is cut for him.

“Winsome Waitress Wins Wealthy Wisconsin Woodsman.”

For a while we felt that Milly was on the verge of being lost to us.

It was our love of the Unerring Artistic Adjustment of Nature that inspired us.  We could not give her over to a lumberman, doubly accursed by wealth and provincialism.  We shuddered to think of Milly, with her voice modulated and her elbows covered, pouring tea in the marble teepee of a tree murderer.  No!  In Cypher’s she belonged—­in the bacon smoke, the cabbage perfume, the grand, Wagnerian chorus of hurled ironstone china and rattling casters.

Our fears must have been prophetic, for on that same evening the wildwood discharged upon us Milly’s preordained confiscator—­our fee to adjustment and order.  But Alaska and not Wisconsin bore the burden of the visitation.

We were at our supper of beef stew and dried apples when he trotted in as if on the heels of a dog team, and made one of the mess at our table.  With the freedom of the camps he assaulted our ears and claimed the fellowship of men lost in the wilds of a hash house.  We embraced him as a specimen, and in three minutes we had all but died for one another as friends.

He was rugged and bearded and wind-dried.  He had just come off the “trail,” he said, at one of the North River ferries.  I fancied I could see the snow dust of Chilcoot yet powdering his shoulders.  And then he strewed the table with the nuggets, stuffed ptarmigans, bead work and seal pelts of the returned Klondiker, and began to prate to us of his millions.

“Bank drafts for two millions,” was his summing up, “and a thousand a day piling up from my claims.  And now I want some beef stew and canned peaches.  I never got off the train since I mushed out of Seattle, and I’m hungry.  The stuff the niggers feed you on Pullmans don’t count.  You gentlemen order what you want.”

And then Milly loomed up with a thousand dishes on her bare arm—­loomed up big and white and pink and awful as Mount Saint Elias—­with a smile like day breaking in a gulch.  And the Klondiker threw down his pelts and nuggets as dross, and let his jaw fall half-way, and stared at her.  You could almost see the diamond tiaras on Milly’s brow and the hand-embroidered silk Paris gowns that he meant to buy for her.