"Are you and I going to fight?" she demanded.
"That depends on you," returned Orde squarely, but with perfect
good-humour.
They eyed each other a moment. Then the girl closed her fan, and
leaned forward to touch him on the arm with it.
"You are quite right not to allow me to say mean things about your
friends, and I am a nasty little snip."
Orde bowed with sudden gravity.
"And they do throw bread," said he.
They both laughed. She leaned back with a movement of satisfaction,
seeming to sink into the shadows.
"Now, tell me; what do you do?"
"What do I do?" asked Orde, puzzled.
"Yes. Everybody does something out West here. It's a disgrace not
to do something, isn't it?"
"Oh, my business! I'm a river-driver just now."
"A river-driver?" she repeated, once more leaning forward. "Why,
I've just been hearing a great deal about you."
"That so?" he inquired.
"Yes, from Mrs. Baggs."
"Oh!" said Orde. "Then you know what a drunken, swearing, worthless
lot of bums and toughs we are, don't you?"
For the first time, in some subtle way she broke the poise of her
attitude.
"There is Hell's Half-Mile," she reminded him.
"Oh, yes," said Orde bitterly, "there's Hell's Half-Mile! Whose
fault is that? My rivermen's? My boys? Look here! I suppose you
couldn't understand it, if you tried a month; but suppose you were
working out in the woods nine months of the year, up early in the
morning and in late at night.
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