Just my bungling wit. The truth is, I was too much
of a greenhorn to hold my own and spare glances on my neighbors."
So Corliss went away, glad that he had not spoken, and keenly
appreciating St. Vincent's craft whereby he had so adroitly forestalled
adverse comment by telling the story in his own modest, self-effacing
way.
Two men and a woman! The most potent trinity of factors in the
creating of human pathos and tragedy! As ever in the history of man,
since the first father dropped down from his arboreal home and walked
upright, so at Dawson. Necessarily, there were minor factors, not
least among which was Del Bishop, who, in his aggressive way, stepped
in and accelerated things. This came about in a trail-camp on the way
to Miller Creek, where Corliss was bent on gathering in a large number
of low-grade claims which could only be worked profitably on a large
scale.
"I'll not be wastin' candles when I make a strike, savve!" the
pocket-miner remarked savagely to the coffee, which he was settling
with a chunk of ice. "Not on your life, I guess rather not!"
"Kerosene?" Corliss queried, running a piece of bacon-rind round the
frying-pan and pouring in the batter.
"Kerosene, hell! You won't see my trail for smoke when I get a gait on
for God's country, my wad in my poke and the sunshine in my eyes. Say!
How'd a good juicy tenderloin strike you just now, green onions, fried
potatoes, and fixin's on the side? S'help me, that's the first
proposition I'll hump myself up against.
Pages:
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151