Mr. Best was bewildered.  “What ails you?” he queried.  “I don’t want any men, and you know it.”

“You want this fellow, and you’re going to hire him.”

“Am I?  What makes you think so?”

“Because it’s—­him or me,” Laure said, calmly.

Mr. Best was both surprised and angered at this cool announcement.  “You mean, I s’pose, that you’ll quit,” he said, belligerently.

“I mean that very thing.  The man has money—­”

Best’s anger disappeared as if by magic; his tone became apologetic.  “Oh!  Why didn’t you say so?  If he’ll pay enough, and if you want him, why, of course—­”

Laure interrupted with an unexpected dash of temper.  “He isn’t going to pay you anything:  you’re going to pay him—­top wages, too.  Understand?”

The unhappy recipient of this ultimatum raised his hands in a gesture of despair.  “Himmel!  There’s no understanding you girls!  There’s no getting along with you, either.  What’s on your mind, eh?  Are you after him or his coin?”

“I—­don’t know.”  Laure was gazing at Phillips with a peculiar expression.  “I’m not sure.  Maybe I’m after both.  Will you be good and hire him, or—­”

“Oh, you’ve got me!” Best declared, with frank resentment.  “If you want him, I s’pose I’ll have to get him for you, but”—­he muttered an oath under his breath—­“you’ll ruin me.  Oy!  Oy!  I’ll be glad when you’re all in Dawson and at work.”

After some further talk the manager approached Phillips and made himself known.  “Laure tells me you want to join our troupe,” he began.

“I’ll see that he pays you well,” the girl urged.  “Come on.”

Phillips’ thoughts were not quite clear, but, even so, the situation struck him as grotesquely amusing.  “I’m no song-and-dance man,” he said, with a smile.  “What would you expect me to do?  Play a mandolin?”

“I don’t know exactly,” Best replied.  “Maybe you could help me ride herd on these Bernhardts.”  He ran a hand through his thin black hair, thinner now by half than when he left the States.  “If you could do that, why—­you could save my reason.”

“He wants you to be a Simon Legree,” Laure explained.

The manager seconded this statement by a nod of his head.  “Sure!  Crack the whip over ’em.  Keep ’em in line.  Don’t let ’em get married.  I thought I was wise to hire good-lookers, but—­I was crazy.  They smile and they make eyes and the men fight for ’em.  They steal ’em away.  I’ve had a dozen battles and every time I’ve been licked.  Already four of my girls are gone.  If I lose four more I can’t open; I’ll be ruined.  Oy!  Such a country!  Every day a new love-affair; every day more trouble—­”

Laure threw back her dark head and laughed in mischievous delight.  “It’s a fact,” she told Pierce.  “The best Best gets is the worst of it.  He’s not our manager, he’s our slave; we have lots of fun with him.”  Stepping closer to the young man, she slipped her arm within his and, looking up into his face, said, in a low voice:  “I knew I could fix it, for I always have my way.  Will you go?” When he hesitated she repeated:  “Will you go with me or—­shall I go with you?”