With a careless nod she picked her way toward the launch, where her friends were already a.s.sembling. She was angry and suspicious. Her pride was hurt because she had not been able to feel superior to the other woman. Instead, she had descended to the weak resource of innuendo, while Cherry had been simple and direct. She had expected to recognize instantly the type of person with whom she had to deal, but she found herself baffled. Who was this woman? What was she doing here? Why had Boyd never told her of this extraordinary intimacy? She remembered more than one occasion when he had defended the woman. She resolved to put an end to the affair at once; Boyd must either give up Cherry or--

During the talk between the two young women Constantine had kept at a respectful distance, but when Mildred had gone he came up to Cherry, with the question:

"Who is that?"

"That is Miss Wayland. That is the richest girl in the world, Constantine."

"Humph!"

"And the pity of it is, she doesn't understand how very rich she is. Her father owns all these canneries and many more besides, and lots of railroads--but you don't know what a railroad is, do you?"

"Mebbe him rich as Mr. Marsh, eh?"

"A thousand time richer. Mr. Marsh works for him the way you work for me."

Being too much a gentleman to dispute his mistress' word, Constantine merely shook his head and smiled broadly.

"She fine lady," he acknowledged. "She got plenty nice dress--silik."

"Yes, silk."

"She more han'somer than you be," he added, with reluctant candor. "Mebbe that's lie 'bout Mr. Marsh, eh? White men all work for Mr. Marsh. He no work for n.o.body."

"No, it is true. Mr. Marsh knows how rich she is, and that is why he wants to marry her."

The breed wheeled swiftly, his soft soles crunching the gravel.

"Mr. Marsh want _marry_ her?" he repeated, as if doubting his ears.

"Yes. That is why he has fought Mr. Emerson--they both want to marry her.

That is why Marsh broke Mr. Emerson's machinery, and hired his men away from him, and cut his nets. They hate each other--do you understand?"

"Me savvy!" said Constantine shortly, then strode on beside the girl. "Me think all the time Mr. Emerson goin' marry you."

Cherry gasped. "No, no! Why, he is in love with Miss Wayland."

"S'pose he don' marry her?"

"Than Mr. Marsh will get her, I dare say."

After a moment Constantine announced, with conviction: "I guess Mr. Marsh is d.a.m.n bad man."

"I'm glad you have discovered that. He has even tried to kill Mr. Emerson; that shows the sort of man he is."

"It's good thing--get marry!" said Constantine, vaguely. "The Father say if woman don' marry she go to h.e.l.l."

"I'd hate to think that," laughed the girl.

"That's true," the other affirmed, stoutly. "The pries' he say so, and pries' don' lie. He say man takes a woman and don' get marry, they both go to h.e.l.l and burn forever. Bime'by little baby come, and he go to h.e.l.l, too."

"Oh, I understand! The Father wants to make sure of his people, and he is quite right. You natives haven't observed the law very carefully."

"He say Indian woman stop with white man, she never see Jesus' House no more. She go to h.e.l.l sure, and baby go too. You s'pose that's true?"

"I dare say it is, in a way."

"By G.o.d! That's tough on little baby!" exclaimed Constantine, fervently.

All that night Boyd stayed at his post, while the cavernous building shuddered and hissed to the straining toil of the machines and the gasping breath of the furnaces. As the darkness gathered, he had gone out upon the dock to look regretfully toward the twinkling lights on _The Grande Dame_, then turned doggedly back to his labors. Another load had just arrived from the trap; already the plant, untried by the stress of a steady run, was clogged and working far below capacity. He would have sent Mildred word, but he had not a single man to spare.

At ten o'clock the next morning he staggered into his quarters, more dead than alive. In his heart was a great thankfulness that Big George had not found him wanting. The last defective machine was mended, the last weakness strengthened, and the plant had reached its fullest stride. The fish might come now in any quant.i.ty; the rest was but a matter of coal and iron and human endurance. Meanwhile he would sleep.

He met "Fingerless" Fraser emerging, decked royally in all the splendor of new clothes and spotless linen.

"Where are you going?" Boyd asked him.

"I'm going out into society."

"Clyde is taking you to the yacht, eh?"

"No! He's afraid of my work, so I'm going out on my own. He told me all about the swell quilts at Marsh's place, so I thought I'd lam up there and look them over. I may cop an heiress." He winked wisely. "If I see one that looks gentle, I'm liable to grab me some bride. He says there ain't one that's got less than a couple of millions in her kick."

Boyd was too weary to do more than wish him success, but it seemed that fortune favored Fraser, for before he had gone far he saw a young woman seated in a patch of wild flowers, plucking the blooms with careless hand while she drank in the beauty of the bright Arctic morning. She was simply dressed, yet looked so prosperous that Fraser instantly decided:

"That's her! I'll spread my checks with this one."

"Good-morning!" he began.

The girl gave him an indifferent glance from two fearless eyes, and nodded slightly. But "Fingerless" Fraser upon occasion could summon a smile that was peculiarly engaging. He did so now, seating himself hat in hand, with the words:

"If you don't mind, I'll rest a minute. I'm out for my morning walk. It's a nice day, isn't it?" As she did not answer, he ran on, glibly: "My name is De Benville--I'm one of the New Orleans branch. That's my cannery down yonder." He pointed in the direction from which he had just come.

"Indeed!" said the young lady.

"Yes. It's mine."

A wrinkle gathered at the corners of the stranger's eyes; her face showed a flicker of amus.e.m.e.nt.

"I thought that was Mr. Emerson's cannery," she said.

"Oh, the idea! He only runs it for me. I put up the money. You know him, eh?"

The girl nodded. "Yes; I know Mr. Clyde also."

"Who--Alton?" he queried, with rea.s.suring warmth. "Why, you and I have got mutual friends. Alton and me is pals." He shook his head solemnly. "Ain't he a scourge?"

"I beg your pardon."

"I say, ain't he an awful thing? He ain't anything like Emerson. There's a ring-tailed swallow, all right, all right! I like him."