“See here, now,” Glenister urged.  “We’ll be in Nome in a week—­ before the young lady would have time to show symptoms of the disease, even if she were going to have it—­and a thousand to one she hasn’t been exposed, and will never show a trace of it.  Nobody knows she’s aboard but we three.  Nobody will see her get off.  She’ll stay in this cabin, which will be just as effectual as though you isolated her in any other part of the boat.  It will avoid a panic—­you’ll save your ship and your company—­no one will be the wiser—­then if the girl comes down with small-pox after she gets ashore, she can go to the pest-house and not jeopardize the health of all the people aboard this ship.  You go up forrad to your bridge, sir, and forget that you stepped in to see old Bill Dextry this morning.  Well take care of this matter all right.  It means as much to us as it does to you.  We’ve got to be on Anvil Creek before the ground thaws or we’ll lose the Midas.  If you make a fuss, you’ll ruin us all.”

For some moments they watched him breathlessly as he frowned in indecision, then—­

“You’ll have to look out for the steward,” he said, and the girl sank to a stool while two great tears rolled down her cheeks.  The captain’s eyes softened and his voice was gentle as he laid his hand on her head.

“Don’t feel hurt over what I said, miss.  You see, appearances don’t tell much, hereabouts—­most of the pretty ones are no good.  They’ve fooled me many a time, and I made a mistake.  These men will help you through; I can’t.  Then when you get to Nome, make your sweetheart marry you the day you land.  You are too far north to be alone.”

He stepped out into the passage and closed the door carefully.

CHAPTER III

IN WHICH GLENISTER ERRS

“Well, bein’ as me an’ Glenister is gougin’ into the bowels of Anvil Creek all last summer, we don’t really get the fresh-grub habit fastened on us none.  You see, the gamblers down-town cop out the few aigs an’ green vegetables that stray off the ships, so they never get out as far as the Creek none; except, maybe, in the shape of anecdotes.

“We don’t get intimate with no nutriments except hog-boosum an’ brown beans, of which luxuries we have unstinted measure, an’ bein’ as this is our third year in the country we hanker for bony fido grub, somethin’ scan’lous.  Yes, ma’am—­three years without a taste of fresh fruit nor meat nor nuthin’—­except pork an’ beans.  Why, I’ve et bacon till my immortal soul has growed a rind.

“When it comes time to close down the claim, the boy is sick with the fever an’ the only ship in port is a Point Barrow whaler, bound for Seattle.  After I book our passage, I find they have nothin’ aboard to eat except canned salmon, it bein’ the end of a two years’ cruise, so when I land in the States after seventeen days of a fish diet, I am what you might call sated with canned grub, and have added salmon to the list of things concernin’ which I am goin’ to economize.