“And because he’s engaged to the prettiest little woman in Alaska,” Smoke interpolated.

“Yes, and because of that, too, thank you, is no reason for him to get riotous.  He broke out last night again.  Sowed the floor of the M. & M. with gold-dust.  All of a thousand dollars.  Just opened his poke and scattered it under the feet of the dancers.  You’ve heard of it, of course.”

“Yes; this morning.  I’d like to be the sweeper in that establishment.  But still I don’t get you.  Where do I come in?”

“Listen.  He was too turbulent.  I broke our engagement, and he’s going around making a noise like a broken heart.  Now we come to it.  I like eggs.”

“They’re off!” Smoke cried in despair.  “Which way?  Which way?”

“Wait.”

“But what have eggs and appetite got to do with it?” he demanded.

“Everything, if you’ll only listen.”

“Listening, listening,” he chanted.

“Then for Heaven’s sake listen.  I like eggs.  There’s only a limited supply of eggs in Dawson.”

“Sure.  I know that, too.  Slavovitch’s restaurant has most of them.  Ham and one egg, three dollars.  Ham and two eggs, five dollars.  That means two dollars an egg, retail.  And only the swells and the Arrals and the Wild Waters can afford them.”

“He likes eggs, too,” she continued.  “But that’s not the point.  I like them.  I have breakfast every morning at eleven o’clock at Slavovitch’s.  I invariably eat two eggs.”  She paused impressively.  “Suppose, just suppose, somebody corners eggs.”

She waited, and Smoke regarded her with admiring eyes, while in his heart he backed with approval Wild Water’s choice of her.

“You’re not following,” she said.

“Go on,” he replied.  “I give up.  What’s the answer?”

“Stupid!  You know Wild Water.  When he sees I’m languishing for eggs, and I know his mind like a book, and I know how to languish, what will he do?”

“You answer it.  Go on.”

“Why, he’ll just start stampeding for the man that’s got the corner in eggs.  He’ll buy the corner, no matter what it costs.  Picture:  I come into Slavovitch’s at eleven o’clock.  Wild Water will be at the next table.  He’ll make it his business to be there.  ‘Two eggs, shirred,’ I’ll say to the waiter.  ‘Sorry, Miss Arral,’ the waiter will say; ‘they ain’t no more eggs.’  Then up speaks Wild Water, in that big bear voice of his, ‘Waiter, six eggs, soft boiled.’  And the waiter says, ‘Yes, sir,’ and the eggs are brought.  Picture:  Wild Water looks sideways at me, and I look like a particularly indignant icicle and summon the waiter.  ‘Sorry, Miss Arral,’ he says, ’but them eggs is Mr. Wild Water’s.  You see, Miss, he owns ’em.’  Picture:  Wild Water, triumphant, doing his best to look unconscious while he eats his six eggs.

“Another picture:  Slavovitch himself bringing two shirred eggs to me and saying, ‘Compliments of Mr. Wild Water, Miss.’  What can I do?  What can I possibly do but smile at Wild Water, and then we make up, of course, and he’ll consider it cheap if he has been compelled to pay ten dollars for each and every egg in the corner.”