At last the bollworm had attacked the cotton—­the poison ivy was reaching out its tendrils to entwine the summer boarder—­the millionaire lumberman, thinly disguised as the Alaskan miner, was about to engulf our Milly and upset Nature’s adjustment.

Kraft was the first to act.  He leaped up and pounded the Klondiker’s back.  “Come out and drink,” he shouted.  “Drink first and eat afterward.”  Judkins seized one arm and I the other.  Gaily, roaringly, irresistibly, in jolly-good-fellow style, we dragged him from the restaurant to a cafe, stuffing his pockets with his embalmed birds and indigestible nuggets.

There he rumbled a roughly good-humoured protest.  “That’s the girl for my money,” he declared.  “She can eat out of my skillet the rest of her life.  Why, I never see such a fine girl.  I’m going back there and ask her to marry me.  I guess she won’t want to sling hash any more when she sees the pile of dust I’ve got.”

“You’ll take another whiskey and milk now,” Kraft persuaded, with Satan’s smile.  “I thought you up-country fellows were better sports.”

Kraft spent his puny store of coin at the bar and then gave Judkins and me such an appealing look that we went down to the last dime we had in toasting our guest.

Then, when our ammunition was gone and the Klondiker, still somewhat sober, began to babble again of Milly, Kraft whispered into his ear such a polite, barbed insult relating to people who were miserly with their funds, that the miner crashed down handful after handful of silver and notes, calling for all the fluids in the world to drown the imputation.

Thus the work was accomplished.  With his own guns we drove him from the field.  And then we had him carted to a distant small hotel and put to bed with his nuggets and baby seal-skins stuffed around him.

“He will never find Cypher’s again,” said Kraft.  “He will propose to the first white apron he sees in a dairy restaurant to-morrow.  And Milly—­I mean the Natural Adjustment—­is saved!”

And back to Cypher’s went we three, and, finding customers scarce, we joined hands and did an Indian dance with Milly in the centre.

This, I say, happened three years ago.  And about that time a little luck descended upon us three, and we were enabled to buy costlier and less wholesome food than Cypher’s.  Our paths separated, and I saw Kraft no more and Judkins seldom.

But, as I said, I saw a painting the other day that was sold for $5,000.  The title was “Boadicea,” and the figure seemed to fill all out-of-doors.  But of all the picture’s admirers who stood before it, I believe I was the only one who longed for Boadicea to stalk from her frame, bringing me corned-beef hash with poached egg.

I hurried away to see Kraft.  His satanic eyes were the same, his hair was worse tangled, but his clothes had been made by a tailor.

“I didn’t know,” I said to him.