“They ain’t a bad egg in the Klondike,” Shorty snorted.

“Just the same, if I find one bad egg you’ve got to come back with the ten I paid for it.”

“That’s all right,” Smoke placated.  “It’s only fair.”

“An’ every bad egg you come back with I’ll eat,” Shorty declared.

Smoke inserted the word “good” in the contract, and Wild Water sullenly signed, received the trial two dozen in a tin pail, pulled on his mittens, and opened the door.

“Good-by, you robbers,” he growled back at them, and slammed the door.

Smoke was a witness to the play next morning in Slavovitch’s.  He sat, as Wild Water’s guest, at the table adjoining Lucille Arral’s.  Almost to the letter, as she had forecast it, did the scene come off.

“Haven’t you found any eggs yet?” she murmured plaintively to the waiter.

“No, ma’am,” came the answer.  “They say somebody’s cornered every egg in Dawson.  Mr. Slavovitch is trying to buy a few just especially for you.  But the fellow that’s got the corner won’t let loose.”

It was at this juncture that Wild Water beckoned the proprietor to him, and, with one hand on his shoulder, drew his head down.  “Look here, Slavovitch,” Wild Water whispered hoarsely, “I turned over a couple of dozen eggs to you last night.  Where are they?”

“In the safe, all but that six I have all thawed and ready for you any time you sing out.”

“I don’t want ’em for myself,” Wild Water breathed in a still lower voice.  “Shir ’em up and present ’em to Miss Arral there.”

“I’ll attend to it personally myself,” Slavovitch assured him.

“An’ don’t forget—­compliments of me,” Wild Water concluded, relaxing his detaining clutch on the proprietor’s shoulder.

Pretty Lucille Arral was gazing forlornly at the strip of breakfast bacon and the tinned mashed potatoes on her plate when Slavovitch placed before her two shirred eggs.

“Compliments of Mr. Wild Water,” they at the next table heard him say.

Smoke acknowledged to himself that it was a fine bit of acting—­the quick, joyous flash in the face of her, the impulsive turn of the head, the spontaneous forerunner of a smile that was only checked by a superb self-control which resolutely drew her face back so that she could say something to the restaurant proprietor.

Smoke felt the kick of Wild Water’s moccasined foot under the table.

“Will she eat ’em?—­that’s the question—­will she eat ’em?” the latter whispered agonizingly.

And with sidelong glances they saw Lucille Arral hesitate, almost push the dish from her, then surrender to its lure.

“I’ll take them eggs,” Wild Water said to Smoke.  “The contract holds.  Did you see her?  Did you see her!  She almost smiled.  I know her.  It’s all fixed.  Two more eggs to-morrow an’ she’ll forgive an’ make up.  If she wasn’t here I’d shake hands, Smoke, I’m that grateful.  You ain’t a robber; you’re a philanthropist.”