“Money no object, I suppose?” the one-armed man ventured.

“Oh, none.”

The stranger turned to his companion.  “Looks like we’d have to sit up till our tents come off.  I hope they’ve got chairs in this town.”

“We can stay aboard the ship.”  The girl had a pleasant voice—­she was, in fact, a pleasant sight to look upon, for her face was quiet and dignified, her eyes were level and gray, she wore a head of wavy chestnut hair combed neatly back beneath a trim hat.

Alaska, during the first rush, was a land of pretty women, owing to the fact that a large proportion of those who came North did so for the avowed purpose of trading upon that capital, but even in such company this girl was noticeable and Pierce Phillips regarded her with distinct approval.

“You can have my part of that,” the man told her, with a slight grimace.  “This racket is music, to the bellow of those steers.  And it smells better here.  If I go aboard again I’ll be hog-tied.  Why, I’d rather sit up all night and deal casino to a mad Chinaman!”

“We’ll manage somehow, dad.”  The girl turned to the door and her father followed her.  He paused for a moment while he ran his eye up and down the busy street.

“Looks like old times, doesn’t it, Letty?” Then he stepped out of sight.

When darkness came the wrecking crew worked on by the light of lamps, lanterns, and candles, for the inducement of double pay was potent.

Along about midnight Mr. Lucky Broad, the shell-man, picked his way through the bales and bundles and, recognizing Phillips, greeted him familiarly: 

“Hello, kid!  Where’s her nibs, the corn-tassel Countess?”

“Gone to supper.”

“Well, she sprung you, didn’t she?  Some gal!  I knew you was all right, but them boys was certainly roily.”

Pierce addressed the fellow frankly:  “I’m obliged to you for taking my part.  I hardly expected it.”

“Why not?  I got nothing against you.  I got a sort of tenderness for guys like you—­I hate to see ’em destroyed.”  Mr. Broad grinned widely and his former victim responded in like manner.

“I don’t blame you,” said the latter.  “I was an awful knot-head, but you taught me a lesson.”

“Pshaw!” The confidence-man shrugged his shoulders carelessly.  “The best of ’em fall for the shells.  I was up against it and had to get some rough money, but—­it’s a hard way to make a living.  These pilgrims squawk so loud it isn’t safe—­you’d think their coin was soldered onto ’em.  That’s why I’m here.  I understand her Grace is hiring men to go to Dawson.”

“Yes.”

“Well, take a flash at me.”  Mr. Broad stiffened his back, arched his chest, and revolved slowly upon his heels.  “Pretty nifty, eh?  What kind of men does she want?”

“Packers, boatmen—­principally boatmen—­fellows who can run white water.”

The new applicant was undoubtedly in a happy and confident mood, for he rolled his eyes upward, exclaiming, devoutly:  “I’m a gift from heaven!  Born in a batteau and cradled on the waves—­that’s me!”