“You certainly are, Shorty.  First thing in the morning tip off Slavovitch.  Have him tell Wild Water that you and I are partners in the deal.”

Five minutes later Smoke was again aroused by Shorty.

“Say!  Smoke!  Oh, Smoke!”

“Yes?”

“Not a cent less than ten a throw.  Do you get that?”

“Sure thing—­all right,” Smoke returned sleepily.

In the morning Smoke chanced upon Lucille Arral again at the dry-goods counter of the A. C. Store.

“It’s working,” he jubilated.  “It’s working.  Wild Water’s been around to Slavovitch, trying to buy or bully eggs out of him.  And by this time Slavovitch has told him that Shorty and I own the corner.”

Lucille Arral’s eyes sparkled with delight.  “I’m going to breakfast right now,” she cried.  “And I’ll ask the waiter for eggs, and be so plaintive when there aren’t any as to melt a heart of stone.  And you know Wild Water’s been around to Slavovitch, trying to buy the corner if it costs him one of his mines.  I know him.  And hold out for a stiff figure.  Nothing less than ten dollars will satisfy me, and if you sell for anything less, Smoke, I’ll never forgive you.”

That noon, up in their cabin, Shorty placed on the table a pot of beans, a pot of coffee, a pan of sourdough biscuits, a tin of butter and a tin of condensed cream, a smoking platter of moose-meat and bacon, a plate of stewed dried peaches, and called:  “Grub’s ready.  Take a slant at Sally first.”

Smoke put aside the harness on which he was sewing, opened the door, and saw Sally and Bright spiritedly driving away a bunch of foraging sled-dogs that belonged to the next cabin.  Also he saw something else that made him close the door hurriedly and dash to the stove.  The frying-pan, still hot from the moose-meat and bacon, he put back on the front lid.  Into the frying-pan he put a generous dab of butter, then reached for an egg, which he broke and dropped spluttering into the pan.  As he reached for a second egg, Shorty gained his side and clutched his arm in an excited grip.

“Hey!  What you doin’?” he demanded.

“Frying eggs,” Smoke informed him, breaking the second one and throwing off Shorty’s detaining hand.  “What’s the matter with your eyesight?  Did you think I was combing my hair?”

“Don’t you feel well?” Shorty queried anxiously, as Smoke broke a third egg and dexterously thrust him back with a stiff-arm jolt on the breast.  “Or are you just plain loco?  That’s thirty dollars’ worth of eggs already.”

“And I’m going to make it sixty dollars’ worth,” was the answer, as Smoke broke the fourth.  “Get out of the way, Shorty.  Wild Water’s coming up the hill, and he’ll be here in five minutes.”

Shorty sighed vastly with commingled comprehension and relief, and sat down at the table.  By the time the expected knock came at the door, Smoke was facing him across the table, and, before each, was a plate containing three hot, fried eggs.