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“Too bad,” he said, coldly. “If I can be of any assistance you’ll find me down at the shaft-house.” And out he walked.

I knew he didn’t intend to be inhospitable; that it was just his infernal notions of decency, and that he refused to be a party to anything as devilish as this looked–but it wasn’t according to the Alaska code, and it was like a slap in the girl’s face.

“I am quite dry,” she said. “I’ll be going now.”

“You will not. You’ll stay to supper and drive home by moonlight,” says we. “Why, you’d freeze in a mile!” And we made her listen to us.

During the meal Prosser never opened his mouth except to put something into it, but his manner was as full of language as an oration. He didn’t thaw out the way a man should when he sees strangers wading into the grub he’s paid a dollar a pound for, and when we’d finally sent the young woman off Martin turned on him.

“Young feller,” said he–and his eyes were black–“I’ve rattled around for thirty years and seen many a good and many a bad man, but I never before seen such an intelligent dam’ fool as you are.”

“What do you mean?” said the boy.

“You’ve broke about the only law that this here country boasts of–the law of hospitality.”

“He didn’t mean it that way,” I spoke up. “Did you, Monty?”

“Certainly not. I’d help anybody out of trouble–man or woman–but I refuse to mix with that kind of people socially.”

“‘That kind of people,'” yelled the old man. “And what’s the matter with that kind of people? You come creeping out of the milk-and-water East, all pink and perfumed up, and when you get into a bacon-and-beans country where people sweat instead of perspiring you wrinkle your nose like a calf and whine about the kind of people you find. What do you know about people, anyhow? Did you ever want to steal?”

“Of course not,” said Prosser, who kept his temper.

“Did you ever want to drink whisky so bad you couldn’t stand it?”

“No.”

“Did you ever want to kill a man?”

“No.”

“Were you ever broke and friendless and hopeless?”

“Why, I can’t say I ever was.”

“And you’ve never been downright hungry, either, where you didn’t know if you’d ever eat again, have you? Then what license have you got to blame people for the condition you find them in? How do you know what brought this girl where she is?”

“Oh, I pity any woman who is adrift on the world, if that’s what you mean, but I won’t make a pet out of her just because she is friendless. She must expect that when she chooses her life. Her kind are bad–bad all through. They must be.”

“Not on your life. Decency runs deeper than the hives.”

“Trouble with you,” said I, “you’ve got a juvenile standard–things are all good or all bad in your eyes–and you can’t like a person unless the one overbalances the other. When you are older you’ll find that people are like gold-mines, with a thin streak of pay on bed-rock and lots of hard digging above.”

“I didn’t mean to be discourteous,” our man continued, “but I’ll never change my feelings about such things. Mind you, I’m not preaching, nor asking you to change your habits–all I want is a chance to live my own life clean.”

The mail came in during March, five hundred pounds of it, and the camp went daffy.

Monty had the dogs harnessed ten minutes after we got the news, and we drove the four miles in seventeen minutes. I’ve known men with sweethearts outside, but I never knew one to act gladder than Monty did at the thought of hearing from his mother.

“You must come and see us when you make your pile,” he told me, “or–what’s better–we’ll go East together next spring and surprise her. Won’t that be great? We’ll walk in on her in the summer twilight while she is working in her flower-garden. Can’t you just see the green trees and smell the good old smells of home? The catbirds will be calling and the grass will be clean and sweet. Why, I’m so tired of the cold and the snow and the white, white mountains that I can hardly stand it.”