style="font-size:15px;"> Sam blushed. "Oh, it looks like a hobo if you don't," he stammered.
She repeated the word with a comical face. "What is hobo?"
"Oh, a tramp, a loafer, a bum."
"I on'erstan'," she said. "We got hoboes, too. My mot'er's 'osban' is a hobo."
She looked at his chin again. "Bishop Lajeunesse not scrape his chin," she stated. "Got long hair, so. He is fine man."
Sam, not knowing exactly what to say, remained silent. He found it difficult to accommodate himself to a conversational Bela. She was much changed in the morning light from the inscrutable figure of the fire-side. Ten times more human and charming, it is true, but on that account the more disconcerting to a young man, without experience of the sex. Moreover, her beauty took his breath away. Bela watched his blushes with interest.
"What mak' your face hot?" she asked. "There is no fire."
He could not but believe she was making fun of him. "Ah! cut it out!" he growled.
"White men fonny," said Bela, rolling her strips of cotton.
"Funny!" repeated Sam. "How about you? Hanged if you're not the strangest thing I ever came across."
Obviously this did not displease her. She merely shrugged.
He forgot some of his self-consciousness in his curiosity. "Where do you come from?" he asked, drawing nearer. "Where do you go to?" – "You wonderful creature!" his eyes added.
"No magic," she said calmly. "I just plain girl."
"Why wouldn't you tell them how you got out night before last?"
"Maybe I want get out again."
"Will you tell me?"
She glanced at him provokingly through her lashes. "Why I tell you? You just go tell your partners."
"They're no partners of mine," said Sam bitterly. "I should think you could see that. I'm just their cook. I work for my grub. They don't let me forget it either."
"Why you come to this country?" asked Bela.
"I want a piece of land the same as they do. But I've got to work to earn an outfit before I can settle."
"When you get your land what you do then?" she asked.
"Build a house, raise crops."
"White man all want land to dig," said Bela wonderingly.
"You've got to have land," explained Sam eagerly. "You've got to have something of your own. Outside, a poor man has no chance nowadays but to slave away his best years working for a rich man."
Bela studied his face, trying to grasp these ideas so new to her.
"How did you get out of the shack?" Sam asked her again.
"I tell you," she said abruptly. "I climb the chimney."
"By George!" he exclaimed admiringly.
"It was easy. But I get all black. I am all day cleaning myself after."
"You're a wonder!" he cried. "Travelling about alone and all. Are all the girls up here like you?"
"No," replied Bela quaintly. "There is nobody lak me. I am Bela."
"Where do you live?"
She looked at him again through her lashes. "Maybe I tell you when I know you better."
"Tell me now," he pleaded.
She shook her head.
Sam frowned. "There's generally no good behind a mystery," he remarked.
"Maybe," said Bela. "But I not goin' tell all I know."
There was something highly exasperating to a young man in her cool, smiling air. He stood looking at her, feeling oddly flat and baffled.
Suddenly she turned her head to listen. "They gettin' up now," she said quickly. "Go and wash."
"Can't I speak to you if I am the cook?" he demanded.
"Go and wash," she repeated. "I don' want no more trouble."
Sam shrugged and walked stiffly away. He had plenty to occupy his mind while he shaved. His sensations were much mixed. In her subtle way the girl allured, mystified, and angered him all at once. Anger had the last word.
He would like to show her if he was the cook that he wasn't to be trifled with. He felt as if the most important thing in life was to solve the mystery that enshrouded her. However, the invigorating touch of cold water brought about a reaction. Violently scrubbing himself with the towel, he came to a sudden stop and addressed himself after this fashion:
"Steady, old man! You're heading in the wrong direction. You've got to get a toehold yourself before you can look at a girl. She's a sight too good-looking. You can't think about it straight. Forget it! Anyhow, a girl like that, she'd naturally pick a man like Big Jack or Shand. No use storing up trouble for yourself. Put it out of mind. Look the other way. Harden yourself."
Young Joe swung his heavy shoulders around the shack. Seeing Bela alone, he could scarcely credit his good fortune. He approached her, grinning and fawning in his extreme desire to please.
"Hello! You're an early bird," he said.
Bela looked at him in her most inscrutable way.
"How!" she said, offering him her hand according to the etiquette of the country.
Joe fondled it clumsily. "Say, the sight of you is good for sore eyes!" he cried, leering into her face. "Hanged if you ain't better looking than the sun-rise!"
Bela determinedly freed her hand. "Foolish talk!" she said loftily. "Wake the ot'er men and let us eat."
"Aw, don't be in such a rush," pleaded Joe. "I want to talk to you. I won't likely get another chance."
"What you want say?" she asked. "More foolishness, I think."
"Aw, give a fellow a chance," begged Joe. "Be decent to me."
"Well, say it," she commanded.
Joe's feeling was genuine enough. The conqueror of the sex found himself at a loss for words.
"The – the sight of you kind of ties a man's tongue," he stammered. "I can't say it right. You're certainly a wonder! I never thought there was anything like you up here. I could stop here all day just taking you in!"
"I couldn't," said Bela coolly. "I too 'ongry. Wake the ot'er men and go wash."
Joe stared at her, scowling, trying to discover if he was being made game of.
"Ah," he growled, "you might give me a chance to make good."
"I will cook breakfast," said Bela. "I bring some nice whitefish."
"To the deuce with breakfast!" cried Joe. "I spoke you fair. You're only trying to put me off!"
"If
