Mike sat hunched forward on a box in front of the stove in the rough little cabin where he and Murphy were facing together the winter in Toll-Gate flat.  For an hour he had stared at the broken cook stove where a crack disclosed the blaze within.  He chewed steadily and abstractedly upon a lump of tar-weed, and now and then he unclasped his hands and gave his left forefinger a jerk that made the knuckle crack.  Tar-weed and knuckle-cracking were two queer little habits much affected by Mike.  The weed he chewed in the belief that it not only kept his physical body in perfect health, but purified his soul as well; cracking the knuckles on his left forefinger cleared the muddle of his mind when he wanted to go deep into a subject that baffled him.

Hunched forward on another box sat Murphy nursing his elbow with one grimy palm and his pipe with the other.  He would glance at Mike now and then and with a sour grin lifting the scraggly ends of his grizzled mustache.  Murphy was resentfully contemptuous of Mike’s long silences, but he was even more contemptuous of Mike’s gobbling indistinct speech, so he let Mike alone and comforted himself with grinning superciliously when Mike was silent, and sneering at him openly when he spoke, and cursing his cooking when Mike cooked.

“That gurrl,” Mike blurted abruptly while he cracked his knuckles, “she’d better look out!”

“A-ah,” retorted Murphy scornfully, “belike ye’d better tell her so thin.  Or belike ye better set yerself t’ look out fer the gurrl—­I dunno.”

“Oh, I’ll look out fer her,” Mike gobbled, nodding his head mysteriously.  “I bin lookin’ out fer her all the time—­but she ain’t as cute as what she thinks she is.  Oh, maybe she’s cute, but there’s them that’s cuter, an’ they don’t live over in Europe, neither.  Don’t you worry—­”

“Which I’m not doin’ at all, me fine duck,” vouchsafed Murphy boredly, crowding down the tobacco in his pipe.  “An’ it’s you that’s doin’ the worryin’, and fer why I dunno.”

“Oh, I ain’t worryin’—­but that gurrl, she better look out, an’ the old un she better look out too.”

“An’ fer what, then, Mike, should the gurrl be lookin’ out?  Fer a husband, maybe yer thinkin’.”

Mike nodded his head in a way that did not mean assent, but merely that he was not telling all his thoughts.  He fell silent, staring again at the glowing crack in the stove.  Twice he snapped his knuckles before he spoke again.

“She thinks,” he began again abruptly, “that everybody’s blind.  But that’s where she makes a big mistake.  They’s nothin’ the matter with my eyes.  An’ that old un, she better look out too.  Why, the gurrl, she goes spyin’ around t’ meet the other spy, an’ the old un she goes spyin’ around after the gurrl, an’ me I’m spyin’ on—­all of ’em!” He waved a dirt grimed, calloused hand awkwardly.  “The whole bunch,” he chortled.  “They can’t fool me with their spyin’ around!  An’ the gov’ment can’t fool me nayther.  I know who’s the spies up here, an’ I kin fool ’em all.  Why, it’s like back in Minnesota one time—­”