Curtis Gordon’s respect for his guest increased as they walked up the dock, for, before they had taken many steps, out from the crowd which had gathered to watch the ship’s arrival stepped one of his foremen.  This fellow shook hands warmly with O’Neil, whereupon others followed, one by one—­miners, day laborers, “rough-necks” of many nationalities.  They doffed their hats-something they never did for Gordon—­and stretched out grimy hands, their faces lighting up with smiles.  O’Neil accepted their greetings with genuine pleasure and called them by name.

“We just heard you was shipwrecked,” said Gordon’s foreman, anxiously.  “You wasn’t hurt, was you?”

“Not in the least.”

“God be praised!  There’s a lot of the old gang at work here.”

“So I see.”

“Here’s Shorty, that you may remember from the North Pass.”  The speaker dragged from the crowd a red-faced, perspiring ruffian who had hung back with the bashfulness of a small boy.  “He’s the fellow you dug out of the slide at twenty-eight.”

“Connors!” cried O’Neil, warmly.  “I’m glad to see you.  And how are the two arms of you?”

“Better ’n ever they was, the both av them!” Mr. Connors blushed, doubled his fists and flexed his bulging muscles.  “An’ why shouldn’t they be, when you set ’em both with your own hands, Misther O’Neil?  ’Twas as good a job as Doc Gray ever done in the hospittle.  I hope you’re doin’ well, sir.”  He pulled his forelock, placed one foot behind the other, and tapped it on the planking, grinning expansively.

“Very well indeed, thank you.”

O’Neil’s progress was slow, for half the crowd insisted upon shaking his hand and exchanging a few words with him.  Clumsy Swedes bobbed their heads, dark-browed foreign laborers whose nationality it was hard to distinguish showed their teeth and chattered words of greeting.

“Bless my soul!” Gordon exclaimed, finally.

“You know more of them than I do.”

“Yes!  I seldom have to fire a man.”

“Then you are favored of the gods.  Labor is my great problem.  It is the supreme drawback of this country.  These people drift and blow on every breeze, like the sands of the Sahara.  With more and better help I could work wonders here.”

Unexpected as these salutations had been, O’Neil’s greatest surprise came a moment later as he passed the first of the company buildings.  There he heard his name pronounced in a voice which halted him, and in an open doorway he beheld a huge, loose-hung man of tremendous girth, with a war-bag in his hand and a wide black hat thrust back from a shiny forehead.

“Why, Tom!” he exclaimed.  “Tom Slater!”

Gordon groaned and went on with the women, saying:  “Come up to the house when you escape, Mr. O’Neil.  I shall have dinner served.”

Mr. Slater came forward slowly, dragging his clothes-bag with him.  The two shook hands.