And here, dazzling in evening gown, he met Joy Gastell, whom hitherto he had encountered only on trail, befurred and moccasined.  At dinner he found himself beside her.

“I feel like a fish out of water,” he confessed.  “All you folks are so real grand you know.  Besides, I never dreamed such Oriental luxury existed in the Klondike.  Look at Von Schroeder there.  He’s actually got a dinner jacket, and Consadine’s got a starched shirt.  I noticed he wore moccasins just the same.  How do you like my outfit?”

He moved his shoulders about as if preening himself for Joy’s approval.

“It looks as if you’d grown stout since you came over the Pass,” she laughed.

“Wrong.  Guess again.”

“It’s somebody else’s.”

“You win.  I bought it for a price from one of the clerks at the A. C. Company.”

“It’s a shame clerks are so narrow-shouldered,” she sympathized.  “And you haven’t told me what you think of my outfit.”

“I can’t,” he said.  “I’m out of breath.  I’ve been living on trail too long.  This sort of thing comes to me with a shock, you know.  I’d quite forgotten that women have arms and shoulders.  To-morrow morning, like my friend Shorty, I’ll wake up and know it’s all a dream.  Now, the last time I saw you on Squaw Creek—­”

“I was just a squaw,” she broke in.

“I hadn’t intended to say that.  I was remembering that it was on Squaw Creek that I discovered you had feet.”

“And I can never forget that you saved them for me,” she said.  “I’ve been wanting to see you ever since to thank you—­” (He shrugged his shoulders deprecatingly).  “And that’s why you are here to-night.”

“You asked the Colonel to invite me?”

“No!  Mrs. Bowie.  And I asked her to let me have you at table.  And here’s my chance.  Everybody’s talking.  Listen, and don’t interrupt.  You know Mono Creek?”

“Yes.”

“It has turned out rich—­dreadfully rich.  They estimate the claims as worth a million and more apiece.  It was only located the other day.”

“I remember the stampede.”

“Well, the whole creek was staked to the sky-line, and all the feeders, too.  And yet, right now, on the main creek, Number Three below Discovery is unrecorded.  The creek was so far away from Dawson that the Commissioner allowed sixty days for recording after location.  Every claim was recorded except Number Three below.  It was staked by Cyrus Johnson.  And that was all.  Cyrus Johnson has disappeared.  Whether he died, whether he went down river or up, nobody knows.  Anyway, in six days, the time for recording will be up.  Then the man who stakes it, and reaches Dawson first and records it, gets it.”

“A million dollars,” Smoke murmured.

“Gilchrist, who has the next claim below, has got six hundred dollars in a single pan off bedrock.  He’s burned one hole down.  And the claim on the other side is even richer.  I know.”