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Updated: June 5, 2025
Smoke obeyed her call with alacrity. The man did not exist in Dawson who would not have been flattered by the notice of Lucille Arral, the singing soubrette of the tiny stock company that performed nightly at the Palace Opera House. "Things are dead," she complained, with pretty petulance, as soon as they had shaken hands. "There hasn't been a stampede for a week.
'Sorry, Miss Arral, the waiter will say; 'they ain't no more eggs. Then up speaks Wild Water, in that big bear voice of his, 'Waiter, six eggs, soft boiled. And the waiter says, 'Yes, sir, and the eggs are brought. Picture: Wild Water looks sideways at me, and I look like a particularly indignant icicle and summon the waiter. 'Sorry, Miss Arral, he says, 'but them eggs is Mr. Wild Water's.
It's the big ha! ha! for you an' me, Smoke. We won't never dast show our faces again in Dawson." The letter was from Wild Water, and Smoke read it aloud: Dear Smoke and Shorty: I write to ask, with compliments of the season, your presence at a supper to-night at Slavovitch's joint. Miss Arral will be there and so will Gautereaux. Him and me was pardners down at Circle five years ago.
"Hope a skunk bites you an' you get howlin' hydrophoby," were the terms of Shorty's farewell. It was in the A. C. Company's big store at Dawson, on a morning of crisp frost, that Lucille Arral beckoned Smoke Bellew over to the dry-goods counter. The clerk had gone on an expedition into the storerooms, and, despite the huge, red-hot stoves, Lucille had drawn on her mittens again.
"I don't want 'em for myself," Wild Water breathed in a still lower voice. "Shir 'em up and present 'em to Miss Arral there." "I'll attend to it personally myself," Slavovitch assured him. "An' don't forget compliments of me," Wild Water concluded, relaxing his detaining clutch on the proprietor's shoulder.
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