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“‘Hey, Bill, cop that box; it’ll make a swell bath-tub,’ says one. So the other pulls up his rubber boots, wades out, and brings it in. The trader, hearing that his goods are in danger, adjourns the game long enough to see about it. He hurries down to the beach, looks over his stuff, then inquires:

“‘Where’s my coffin?’

“‘You ‘ain’t got no more coffin than a rabbit,’ says one of the miners.

“‘Oh, yes, I have. That’s it right there.’

“‘I guess not. That’s my coffin. I copped it on the high seas–flotsam and jetsam,’ says the ‘roughneck.’ ‘What’s more, I’m going to use it for a cupboard or a cozy corner. If you want it bad pay me fifty dollars salvage and it’s yours.’ Naturally the trader belched.

“‘All right. If you don’t want it I’ll use it myself,’ says the miner. ‘It’s the first one I ever had, and I like it fine. There’s no telling when I’ll get another.’

“‘Said time ain’t but a minute,’ observes the trader, ‘unless you gimme that freight.’

“There is some further dispute till the miner, being a quick-tempered party, reaches for his Gat. After the smoke clears away it is found that he has made an error of judgment, that the storekeeper is gifted as a prophet, and that the ‘roughneck’ is ready for his coffin.

“Now, inasmuch as this had been a purely personal affair and the boys was anxious to reopen the stud game, they exonerated the trader from all blame complete, and he, being ever anxious to maintain a reputation for fair dealing and just to show that there ain’t no animus behind his action, gives the coffin to the man who had claimed it. What’s more, he helps to lay him out with his own hands. Naturally this is considered conduct handsome enough for any country. In an hour the man is buried and the poker game is open again. The trader apologizes to the boys for the delay, saying:

“‘The box is mine, all right, and I’m sorry this play come up, but the late lamented was so set on having that piece of bric-a-brac that it seemed a shame not to give it to him.'”

At this point the narrator fell silent, much to my surprise, for throughout this weird recital I had sat spellbound, forgetful of the hour, the storm outside, and the snoring men in the bunkroom. When he had gone thus far he began with a bewildering change of topic.

“Did you ever hear how Dawson Sam cut the ears off a bank dealer?”

“Hold on!” said I. “What’s the rest of this story? What became of Manard?”

“Oh, he’s there yet, for all I know,” said the stranger as he shuffled the cards. “His folks wouldn’t send no more money, the steamboat agent at Nome had done his share, and the trader at Chinik said he wasn’t responsible.”

“And you? Didn’t you get your one hundred and fifty dollars?”

“No. You see, it was a C. O. D. shipment. I wake up along about noon, put my head under the pump, and then look up the trader. He is still playing stud.

“‘Where’s my casket?’ says I. ‘I’ve got my dead man, but I don’t collect on him till he’s crated and f. o. b.’ The trader has an ace in the hole and two kings in sight, so he says over his shoulder:

“‘I’m sorry, old man, but while you was asleep a tenderfoot jumped your coffin.’ Now, this Dawson Sam has a crooked bank dealer named–“

“I think I’ll go back to bed,” said I.